


An Hour of Wolves

by thebiwholived



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Discussions of Suicide, Eating Disorder, F/M, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love Potion/Spell, Muteness/Selective Mutism, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Self-Harm, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-04-16 12:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14164617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebiwholived/pseuds/thebiwholived
Summary: Sirius is dead, but Harry's doing alright: between a brand new Quidditch Captaincy, private lessons with Dumbledore, and increasing suspicions about Draco Malfoy, he's got enough to keep him busy. And if an uncomfortable encounter with a classmate ends up leaving him with another challenge to face and even more secrets to keep, well...he's still fine.Really. He is.





	1. Make No Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Harry's sixth year and follows the books up through the start of HBP as far as Harry's summer and his lessons with Dumbledore go - anything else can be disregarded. Will be Harry/Ginny, and they have their moments throughout, but it's a pretty slow build as the focus is mainly on Harry and his recovery.
> 
> Please take care to read the tags: this story is fully mapped and outlined, but I always try to leave room for the unexpected and will add any future tags and warnings as necessary.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Feel free to let me know of any errors, grammatical or otherwise. Constructive criticism is encouraged.
> 
> Also, a major shout-out to my dear friends [Caitlin](http://ginnyweaslays.tumblr.com) and [Jack](http://stagnacht.tumblr.com), who have been enormously encouraging about this project. You guys are the best, and I can't believe I get to know you. You keep me going. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

_Harry was running._

_His feet slammed painfully against the cobblestone floor and he clutched at a burning stitch in his side as he hurtled along the darkened corridor. The only light came from up ahead, around the corner, dull red flashes that pulsed over the walls like some kind of ominous warning: **Turn back now!**_

_But Harry couldn’t turn back._

_He had to keep going. He did not know why, he did not know what he was doing here…he knew only that he had to reach that sickening, dreadful red pulse, had to help whoever was waiting for him around that corner. He, Harry, was the only one who could stop it, who could fix it…._

_Every breath he took was a searing pain, and he felt sure his lungs must be about to burst, yet he pushed himself harder still, feeling as though he were moving through water, through molasses…he was almost there, but he seemed only to be inching forward…a sob built in Harry’s chest, despair creeping into his heart…only a little farther…._

_A blood-curdling scream echoed suddenly into the silence, sending terror lancing through his body – someone was in terrible pain, he had to reach them, he had to save them…._

_Harry stumbled to the corner just as the tortured screams built to a frantic, chilling pitch…he reached out his hand, squinting into the now blinding red light-_

Harry shot straight up in bed, breathing fast and heavy as though he really had been running. He blinked, wide-eyed, into the pitch black of his four-poster, heart thumping madly in his chest as his mind slowly emerged from the nightmare.

The familiar sound of Ron and Neville’s snores drifted over to him across the dormitory and he slumped wearily as his heart rate slowed, resting his head on his knees and burying his hands in his hair. The strands were damp with sweat. Harry shivered, suddenly becoming aware that his pyjama top was soaked through, too. Disgusted, he quickly stripped it off and tossed it to the foot of his bed.

Harry hesitated for a moment before swiping his wand from beneath his pillow, feeling stupid and childish, but knowing all the same that it would help to ease the last remains of the dream from his mind, make it seem less real….

“Lumos,” he whispered, and a narrow beam of light shot from the tip of his wand. He blinked blearily into the sudden brightness as his surroundings came into focus, everything appearing slightly blurred without his glasses. He absently rubbed his forehead and stared at one of the intricate, swirling patterns that decorated his bed curtains; he was infinitely glad he had pulled them closed when he’d gone to bed, and even more relieved he’d remembered to put up a Silencing charm….

He had been having the same nightmare for weeks now, since shortly after his arrival at the Burrow for the summer holidays.

Ron hadn’t mentioned anything to him about talking (or possibly shouting) in his sleep, but there had been a few mornings over breakfast his best mate had seemed more blatantly concerned about him than usual, throwing Harry furtive glances, and whispering to Hermione when he thought Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Harry couldn’t explain why he kept having this dream, or what it might mean, but something told him he did not want to examine this particular one too closely.

Of course, he had had recurring dreams like this before; dreams about long corridors and mysterious locked doors…but Harry was quite sure this one didn’t have anything to do with Voldemort. For one, his scar never hurt when he had it, and in any case Dumbledore had told him he suspected Voldemort was now purposefully blocking his connection to Harry.

Either way, he was relieved to be back at Hogwarts where underage magic wasn’t off-limits. He did not need his dorm mates witnessing his odd sleep problems, or Ron reporting back to Hermione in a fit of unease.

Sighing to himself, Harry extinguished his wand and stashed it again before slipping quietly from his bed, making the familiar trek to the bathroom in the dark.

 

* * *

 

“You look terrible,” Hermione told Harry, her eyebrows knitting together over the top of her copy of the  _Daily Prophet_  as he settled into a seat across the table from her and Ron.

“Thanks,” he said dully, flattening his hair and reaching for a plate of bacon.

He hadn’t got much sleep after he’d woken up the night before; he had tossed and turned for hours until finally managing a light doze just as the sun had begun to creep in under the edges of his curtains. He’d awoken to find the other boys already gone, dressed in a hurry, and rushed down to the Great Hall, arriving only minutes before breakfast was scheduled to end.

“You could have got me up,” Harry told Ron grudgingly, straightening the collar of his robes.

Ron shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth and shrugged. “I tried,” he managed cheerfully around a mouthful of eggs.

A groggy memory of swatting Ron’s hand away and exchanging sleepy, half-hearted insults flashed across Harry’s mind. He grunted and took a bite of bacon.

“Didn’t you sleep well?” Hermione pressed, lowering her newspaper to look at him fully.

Harry shrugged noncommittally, having no desire to discuss the subject with her at the moment, and nodded at the paper. “Any deaths today?” Hermione frowned at him, and opened her mouth to say something, but Ron cut her off.

“Yeah, my Defence Against the Dark Arts mark,” he said gravely, shaking his head and pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes. “I never did that essay for Snape yesterday,” he mumbled to Harry out of the corner of his mouth.

Harry smirked at him, but Hermione had heard and apparently found this less than amusing, for she started in immediately on a long-winded lecture about the importance of sixth year studies and the impact their academic performance would have on their N.E.W.T. exams the following year-

Harry only half-listened as he glanced down the Gryffindor table.

A few seats away, Colin Creevey was talking excitedly to his younger brother, Dennis, holding what appeared to be a thick stack of glossy photos. Harry looked away quickly; making eye contact with Colin usually resulted in a tiring and repetitive conversation in which Colin asked Harry if he would finally be willing to pose for some Quidditch action shots, and Harry was forced to say “no” about a thousand times.

Harry’s gaze landed on Ginny Weasley, who sat half a table away, chatting animatedly with her friends. Dean Thomas sat next to her, his arm curled loosely around her waist.

Harry’s gut squirmed uncomfortably as he stared at them, and he dropped the piece of toast he’d just buttered back to his plate. He found he wasn’t that hungry all of a sudden.

A soft thump jolted Harry out of the beginnings of a rather pleasant daydream about the games of two-a-side Quidditch he'd played against Ginny and Ron during his last stay at the Burrow, and he looked round to see that Hedwig had landed next to his plate. She held a small dead frog in her beak, which she swallowed at once with a flourish and ruffled her feathers, looking haughtily at Harry as though expecting praise. A gaggle of second years shrieked in disgust at Hedwig’s display and sprang out of their seats, gathering their things and running off hurriedly to queue for their first class.

Harry stroked her white feathers fondly, chuckling. “Good girl. Been off hunting?”

She had brought him no mail this morning, but Harry hadn’t been expecting any – she’d delivered a letter from Lupin just yesterday.

The letter was stowed safely in the bag by Harry’s feet, though he didn’t need to retrieve it to know what it said – like the one he had received during the summer from Dumbledore before the headmaster had come to pick him up from the Dursleys’, he had already committed the words to memory:

_Harry,_

_I hope your first week back at school is going well – try to enjoy yourself as much as you can, though probably your coursework is piling on already. If memory serves, your father was threatening to live out the rest of his life as a stag at this point our sixth year. You see the brilliance, it would be difficult to complete two rolls of parchment on Everlasting Elixirs for Professor Slughorn with only hooves to work with. (How are you finding Potions these days, by the way? I have no doubt how your new professor finds you.)_

_Molly told me you made Quidditch Captain. Congratulations – you deserve it. Have you scheduled tryouts yet? I want to hear all about them when you do._

_I’ll soon be busy with a favour for a mutual friend, so my next letter might be delayed. Don’t worry about me, I’m perfectly alright. I want you to focus on your studies._

_Take care of yourself._

_\- Remus Lupin_

Harry assumed ‘a favour for a mutual friend’ meant Dumbledore had given him a mission for the Order and, whatever Lupin’s reassurances, Harry hoped he would be okay.

He smiled to himself as Hedwig nipped at his fingers affectionately. He’d been hoping Lupin would write, and he was far more pleased than he was willing to admit. There was no longer anyone else outside Hogwarts likely to send him letters, not since Sirius….

Harry mentally shook himself. There was absolutely no use thinking about that.

Anyway it was a shame Lupin’s next letter wouldn’t come for a while, Harry thought regretfully, his gaze moving down the table again…it might make life a bit easier if his old professor could somehow know to offer advice, without Harry having to ask, on what to do about his strange, newly developed impulse to jinx Dean’s-

“Harry!”

Harry gave a guilty start and looked up at Ron, who had already half-risen out of his seat.

“You still with us? C’mon, mate, we’ll be late for Defence if you don’t get a move on,” he said, quickly snatching up another piece of toast. Sure enough, most of the students had already left the Hall; great scraping noises echoed around the room as the last-minute stragglers pushed benches hastily back from tables. Harry caught sight of Hermione near the great oak doors, shuffling along a group of dawdling first years.

Grabbing his bag, Harry swung his legs quickly over the bench and made to follow Ron, but a sharp screech behind him made him turn back. Hedwig was still sat upon the table, looking at him with what could only be described as a stern expression. She nudged his plate with her foot as if to say ‘ _Finish your breakfast!’_

Harry rolled his eyes and waved her off impatiently.

She'd been doing that a lot lately.

Harry caught up with Ron and Hermione at the doors to the entrance hall and glanced back just as the last few students hurried past them. Hedwig had gone.

 

* * *

 

Ron was not the only one whose Defence score was in danger, Harry reflected bitterly a half hour later as he and the rest of the class watched Snape stalk around the classroom, offering advice that was far more insulting than helpful and docking points for incorrect wand movements.

They were continuing to practice nonverbal spells, and Snape’s mood was as foul as Harry had ever known it to be. It might have been the fact that not a single person (apart from Hermione, of course, though Snape had not found her success something to be celebrated) had yet to master the simplest of spells without uttering a word; or perhaps Snape was thinking, like Harry, of their detention together Saturday next, and the lesson in which Harry had earned it.

“Switch partners!” Snape barked abruptly.

Although, Harry thought with a hint of satisfaction as Ron stepped away to work with Neville and he turned to square off against Hermione, he was sure he had a fonder memory of that lesson than Snape did.

…  _“There’s no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.”_  …

Hermione had reminded him more than once since then that he ought to watch his tongue in class, but Harry couldn’t find it in himself to regret it with Ron, Dean, and Seamus still maintaining that it had been the singularly most savage thing they’d ever heard anyone say to another human being.

“And what, pray tell, are you smirking at, Potter?” demanded Snape, halting on his way past Harry and Hermione and glowering.

“Nothing,” said Harry evenly, then after a fraction of a pause added, “sir.”

Snape held Harry’s gaze for another moment before striding away again, robes billowing behind him as usual. “Ten points from Gryffindor,” he threw over his shoulder.

Harry’s grip tightened around his wand and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from opening his mouth.  _Ten points for **breathing** , more like_, he thought as both he and Hermione glared at Snape’s retreating back.

What Harry wouldn’t give to finally see that great overgrown bat get what was coming to him….

Scowling, Harry turned back to Hermione and redoubled his efforts to produce a Jelly-Legs Jinx without speaking, determined to spite Snape in any way he possibly could.

 

* * *

 

Lupin’s prediction about the sixth years’ increased workload had unfortunately proven to be true: by the end of their first week, they had been set so much homework that Harry was unsurprised to see a few of his classmates burst into frustrated tears on more than one occasion as they sat tucked away in quiet corners of the common room or library, frantically reviewing complicated diagrams and attempting to decipher their own hastily written notes.

Transfiguration had become so difficult that not even Hermione fully understood the concepts McGonagall was attempting to teach them these days. Defence, which had always been Harry’s favourite subject, was now one of the most dreaded by nearly the entire student body. A great pity, in Harry’s opinion, as the curriculum was now more fascinating than ever, but this was effectively cancelled out by Snape, who seemed incapable of mustering any semblance of good temper, or indeed providing any truly useful guidance despite the fact he was now teaching the subject he’d been after for years.

Potions, to both Harry’s surprise and Professor Slughorn’s unending delight, had suddenly become one of his better subjects.

“I reckon it helps that we don’t have Snape breathing down our necks anymore,” Ron mused as he, Hermione, and Harry sat doing their Potions homework in front of the common room fire on Saturday evening.

“I reckon you’re right,” Harry said, moving his finger down a page of his copy of  _Advanced Potion-Making_  in search of an appropriate quote to add to his essay. “That, and Slughorn doesn’t give me zeros whenever he bloody well feels like it….”

Hermione looked up from her roll of parchment. “Harry, did you write  _‘add five ounces of African Sea Salt’_  under step eight or nine?”

Harry blinked at her. Hermione had taken to checking her Potions work against Harry’s over the past few days, and it still startled him slightly every time it happened.

“Eight.”

“Good….” she nodded, turning back to her own paper. “That’s what I’ve got…..”

“I’ve got it down under step eight, too,” Ron mumbled, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Harry glanced over at him and saw that he was scowling at Hermione.

Ron had taken to doing that quite a lot over the past few days, too.

“Hmm?” Hermione hummed absently.

“Nothing,” said Ron, but he closed his textbook a tad more aggressively than was strictly necessary and tossed it aside, glaring at a couple of fourth year girls who’d been staring over at them and whispering behind their hands, and reaching instead for a copy of the  _Evening Prophet_  someone had left in an empty chair.

A stiff silence fell briefly over the three of them, the only sounds the scratch of quills on parchment and the rustle of pages as Ron flipped through the newspaper.

“Blimey!” He burst out a few minutes later, his irritation apparently forgotten. “These Death Eater loonies get worse every day! They’re  _sick_ , they are….”

A cold hand seemed to twist Harry’s intestines. “What’s happened?” he asked quickly.

“ _‘_ _Family of four killed in ‘brutal’ slaying in Berwick-upon-Tweed’,_ ” Ron read aloud, grimacing. “Bloody hell, it sounds like they even tortured the kids….”

“Oh my God,” Hermione said tearfully, her hand covering her mouth. She got up and moved around the table to read over Ron’s shoulder. She looked sick as her eyes scanned the rest of the article. “That’s horrible! How can they possibly think this stuff is…is  _fun_?”

But Harry did not hear Ron’s reply.

His fingers tightened reflexively around his quill, and he stared into the fire, seething.

Of course Voldemort and his followers were not above torturing kids.

Harry knew that firsthand.

The chilling reports of Death Eater activity had begun trickling in from every corner of the country. Hogwarts students were receiving more mail than ever, letters from anxious parents checking to make sure their children were safe; Hermione had informed them earlier that Eloise Midgen’s father had already come to pull her out of school less than a day ago.

Voldemort was still underground, still working from the shadows, but there was no doubt that the war was on. It was inching slowly into every aspect of their lives, like some kind of creeping, sinister poison.

Harry ran his thumb distractedly along the tip of his quill....

Voldemort had to be stopped.

This thought had begun to dominate most of Harry’s waking hours, ever since Dumbledore had finally told him the truth about the prophecy last term…he had to be stopped, before there were more families like the one in the paper, more families like Neville’s...and Harry’s….

The enormous scale of Voldemort’s powers and influence was becoming clearer to Harry every day. Dumbledore seemed confident in Harry’s ability to go up against him, even to defeat him; as Ron had pointed out, Dumbledore wouldn’t be bothering to give Harry private lessons if he thought Harry was a dead man walking.

But with each new gruesome news story, each rumour passed around in hushed, terrified whispers, each fresh sign that the Wizarding world was gradually being taken over by a gathering darkness, Harry felt more and more powerless to stop it, and lately, once or twice, he had caught himself secretly wondering if they even stood a chance…if  _he_  stood a chance, when everything was said and done….

A sudden sting of pain pulled Harry from his thoughts, and he looked down in mild surprise at his fingers. He'd accidentally punctured his thumb with the sharp tip of his quill. Harry watched idly for a moment as the blood welled up into a tiny red bubble, then brought the injured digit to his mouth, nursing it.

Feeling relieved and anxious all at once that he was starting his lessons with Dumbledore tonight, Harry checked his watch and sat up with a jolt, startling Ron and Hermione.

“It’s nearly eight,” he told them, shoving his book and unfinished essay hurriedly back into his bag. “I’d better get to Dumbledore’s, I’ll see you later.” And Harry left through the portrait hole with Ron and Hermione’s assurances that they would be waiting up for him when he got back.

Five minutes and a very close call with Peeves later, Harry had given the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore’s study the correct password (“Acid Pops!”), ridden the spiral staircase up to the door with the brass knocker, and been told to enter.

“Good evening, sir,” said Harry, closing the door behind him. The circular office looked just as it always had; the curious silver instruments were puffing and whirring upon their little tables, the portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses sleeping, or pretending to, in their frames, and Fawkes the phoenix was watching Harry from his perch with pure bright interest.

A sudden sense of awkward embarrassment stole over Harry. The last time he’d been in this office, he had tried his best to destroy quite a lot of its contents.

But Dumbledore was smiling behind his desk, and Harry felt himself relax a little.

“Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down.”

 

* * *

 

_Poor, sad, miserable Merope Gaunt…._

Her face swam before Harry’s eyes as he made his way back to Gryffindor Tower.

The scene Dumbledore had shown him in the Pensieve had been…well, horrifying.

It had been a bit unsettling to be introduced to Voldemort’s family, to see them in the flesh (so to speak, after all it had been inside someone else’s memory, he supposed), to see where it was Voldemort had come from. But still more disturbing to Harry had been Marvolo Gaunt’s behaviour towards his daughter. In his mind’s eye, Harry watched over and over as Marvolo’s hands closed around her throat, squeezing till she could no longer breathe, her pale face shining with terror….

Harry’s hand rose absently to his neck as the phantom sensation of other, beefier fingers seemed to momentarily press around his own throat, and he was suddenly, viciously glad Marvolo Gaunt had been sentenced to Azkaban….

As Harry turned a corner, a sudden whisper of movement broke through his thoughts of Voldemort’s pitiable mother, and he plunged his hand into his robes, fingers curling around his wand before he’d even fully realised what he was doing. He turned sharply about, heart thudding hard against his ribs, and stared into the darkness, wand held tight in his fist, listening hard.

The torches set high into the stone walls gave off a wavering, flickering light that seemed eerie in the stillness of the castle…several seconds of silence passed....

Harry dropped his wand slightly.

He had just come to the conclusion that it must have been one of the ghosts, or possibly Peeves again, when another whisper reached his ears – there was the hiss of a spell, a slight disturbance of air, and Harry instinctively flung himself to the side. He fell, hard, against a statue of Diarmuid the Daring, forcing the air out of his lungs in a great whoosh. He leaned heavily against the statue, struggling to draw breath and looking around wildly, wand still clutched in his hand – but...what...what was he looking for?

Harry straightened up slowly, clutching his freshly bruised ribs. His grip slackened around his wand, arm falling to hang limply at his side.

Why was he holding his wand?

He couldn’t remember….

He looked up and down the corridor, but it was still and silent. There was no one here.

Come to think of it, Harry couldn’t recall why he was here in this corridor at all. His brow furrowed as he turned slowly on the spot. Which way had he come from?

It was late – shouldn’t he be in Gryffindor Tower? Unless...unless he was supposed to be out of bed. But why should that be? Maybe Ron and Hermione would know…he looked around again for them, but they were nowhere in sight.

That was odd.

They were usually with him.

Harry hesitated. Perhaps he should sit down here and wait for them? He stood stock still for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, wishing childishly that someone might appear miraculously to help him.

He decided he ought to just head back to the common room, but as he took a step forward he discovered he wasn’t entirely sure which way to go. Had he been coming or going, just now?

A leaden feeling settled sickeningly in his stomach, a thin tendril of panic wrapping around the edges of his brain – how was he going to get back?

But just then a soft, steady voice called behind him.

“Are you lost, Harry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of textual tidiness, I left out the usual indicators so I'll say this here: not every word of this is strictly mine, as some small bits of narration and dialogue in this chapter are taken indirectly from HBP, and I've included two exact quotes.


	2. And We're Starting at the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter contains an on-screen depiction of sexual assault. As the language isn't _overly_ graphic, I'll keep the rating as is for the time being, but things do get pretty damn uncomfortable.
> 
> Please read with caution!

Harry’s heart leapt and he whirled around, brandishing his wand again, a spell on the tip of his tongue – but the words retreated back into the recesses of his foggy brain faster than water through a sieve….

He clutched his head, dizzy at the sudden movement, and blinked, squinting across the corridor.

A girl with long dark hair stood half-concealed behind a tapestry. The moonlight streaming in through the mullioned windows illuminated her eyes, her prominent chin...Harry recognized her. He might have met her on the train to school.

She was smiling at him.

“You’re Romilda Vane,” Harry said suddenly, the memory falling into place as she stepped out fully from behind the tapestry. He thought she might have been a fourth year.

Romilda nodded, seeming satisfied. “And you’re Harry Potter,” she simpered. “ _The Chosen One_ , they’re calling you these days….”

Harry frowned. He did not like people calling him that.

Romilda eyed him in an oddly eager way and beckoned him closer. Harry’s feeling of dislike deepened, but he couldn’t recall a reason he might feel that way and tamped it down.

She was a Gryffindor. Maybe she could help him….

He crossed over to her (carefully, so as not to lose his balance, which seemed suddenly very poor), tucking his wand back inside his robes.

She peered up into his face with a look of great pity. “Are you lost?” she asked again. “You seem...confused.”

She was still smiling.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I...I am, a bit,” he admitted, not quite meeting her eyes. He felt his face heat with humiliation. He should know what to do, but he didn’t, he couldn’t think… _._ “I have to get back to Gryffindor. I- I don’t remember how....”

“Well, I can help,” Romilda said brightly. “Follow me!”

She slipped her hand into his and turned to lead him back down the hallway. Harry was immediately seized by the urge to pull his hand away, but he mentally scolded himself…she was only trying to help.

Romilda tugged him a few more steps and stopped at a plain, unassuming door halfway down the corridor. She threw it open, and Harry had just enough time to think that he was quite certain this wasn’t the way back to the dormitories before he was shoved across the threshold. Romilda followed quickly and pulled the door shut, plunging them both into total darkness.

Harry squinted and tried to make out Romilda’s shape next to him but the black pressed against his eyes like a funeral shroud…he reached out and ran his hand along the wall behind him, trying to get his bearings, but a second later, Romilda had whispered something and a small flame sprang from her wand to settle in the palm of her outstretched hand, flooding the room with light.

It reminded Harry forcefully of Lupin, and the shivering flames he had conjured the night they had first met on the Hogwarts Express….

Harry looked away, examining his surroundings as his eyes adjusted.

“This is a broom cupboard,” he said stupidly.

There were shelves of cleaning supplies and stacks of boxes lined up against the walls, leaving a space just big enough for two people to move around in.

Romilda hummed in agreement and set her little flame down on an upturned box. The fire was obviously only an imitation of the real thing; it burned away happily without any apparent effect to the box it rested upon and did not seem to give off any heat....

“Why are we in here?” Harry asked as Romilda turned back to him.

Romilda gaped at him, as an exasperated parent might look at an ill-behaving child. “You can’t very well go back to the Tower like this, can you? You’re acting oddly, Harry, people might ask questions, I’m sure you wouldn’t want that. Would you?”

“No….” Harry said truthfully, and he watched as she reached into her robes and produced a small pink bottle.

He eyed it warily.

“This,” Romilda said, shaking the bottle a little, “will help you to think more clearly.” She held it out to him.

Harry did not take it.

“It will?”

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “You’ll see things exactly as you ought to….”

Harry looked into Romilda’s face. She seemed calm and confident, but a tiny voice in the back of his muddled mind told him that drinking anything of which he wasn’t certain himself was a very, very bad idea...an odd, murky foreboding settled in his gut….

“I need to find Ron and Hermione,” Harry blurted out, surprising even himself with the force of it.

Romilda’s eyebrows scrunched together and Harry felt badly about the look of shock and, he thought, hurt, on her face, but he was suddenly highly aware that he did not want to be in this broom cupboard with her, and he did not want to drink that potion. He just needed to go back to the common room…surely Hermione would know how to fix whatever it was that had scrambled his mind….

Harry shook his head once, twitching it as though he were trying to dislodge a fly; a confusing jumble of thoughts raced around in his head, faltering strangely like a film reel with missing frames…he didn’t want to be here…he reached out behind him again, fumbling for the handle of the door. A look much less like hurt and more like anger flitted over Romilda’s face….

“You can’t leave,” she said in a clipped voice. The sweet-bright edge had left it - she sounded annoyed now.

But Harry’s fingers found the handle of the door and pulled. He opened his mouth to say he’d find a way back to Gryffindor on his own, when Romilda whipped her wand from her robes and pointed it at him in one quick motion, hissing “Petrificus Totalus!” before Harry had any time to react.

His fingers froze instantly, curled awkwardly around the door handle, as did the rest of him, his mouth still open, his eyes staring at Romilda in disbelief....

He couldn’t move a muscle. He felt, for a moment, that he was back on the Hogwarts Express, Petrified humiliatingly by Draco Malfoy. He could almost feel the crunch of his nose breaking under Malfoy’s boot….

Romilda put her hands on her hips and looked Harry briefly up and down, frowning.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, and beneath the tide of panic rising in his chest, Harry thought she sounded oddly as though she really meant it. “I didn’t want it to go like this, I didn’t want to...well,” she paused, frustrated. “I didn’t expect you to be so uncooperative. I heard you telling your friends you were going to the headmaster’s office tonight, and I thought it would be the perfect time to finally get you alone. I know if you’d just give us a chance….”

She let out a quick puff of air, resigned, and uncorked the pink bottle of potion.

Harry frantically strained against the spell holding him in place, or rather tried to – it was as though his body had been cut off from his brain. His eyes alone remained unaffected, and Harry could only watch, his alarm rising, as Romilda drew closer, the flickering light of the conjured flame glinting merrily off the little glass bottle….

Harry focused as hard as he possibly could on freeing himself, willing his body to move, but this yielded no more results than it had done the night on the train. Snape’s sneering face intruded into his mind, unbidden, and Harry could practically hear his scathing taunt about being able to perform magic without spells....

_“Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some…lack….”_

Harry’s panic spiraled higher still, and something of his dread must have shown in his eyes, because Romilda paused, the bottle inches from his lips, and said quietly, “It’ll be okay, Harry, I promise.” She placed a hand on his chest, right over his heart, and Harry wondered whether she could feel its frantic beat beneath her palm. “Just...don’t fight it. We’ll be great together, you’ll see.”

And she tipped the contents of the bottle into his open mouth.

The potion was pure cloying sweetness, floral and fruity in equal measures; it dripped thickly down Harry’s throat, and he would have gagged if his body had allowed it.

Several seconds passed…a minute...Harry waited, stunned and miserable, for Romilda to release him, but she simply stared back, eyes raking over his face.

She seemed to be waiting for something, and perhaps she’d seen it for a moment later she raised her wand again. There was a flash of red light and Harry’s body unfroze.

His knees buckled slightly, catching his weight, and he leaned heavily back against the door of the cupboard. His throat constricted instantly of its own volition, swallowing most of the sickeningly sweet syrup down in one. A burning sensation flared in his stomach, and he quickly spat out the rest of the potion onto the floor.

“Harry...how do you feel?” Romilda asked tentatively.

Harry stared down at the small puddle of pinkish goo, breathing heavily.

A blinding hot surge of rage reared up inside him like a snake and for a brief instant, his mind felt sharp and clear, miraculously free of that strange, dazed confusion.

She’d _Confunded_ him!

Harry’s jaws clenched together so hard his teeth ached and he jerked his head up to glare at Romilda. She had planned it, waited for him, and she...she had…she...was….

 _She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen_.

As his eyes rested on her face, the thought pierced him so powerfully it was almost painful. He felt suddenly dizzy with the realization…how had he never noticed it before? How had he never noticed _her_ before? Her long black hair, her big dark eyes...she was stunning, she was _brilliant_....

Harry could not even think of words worthy enough to describe her, and his heart clenched at this tragic shortcoming.

Romilda was watching him expectantly, bottom lip between her teeth, a hungry look in her eye.

Harry smiled at her tremulously, and her features immediately relaxed as she smiled back (a radiant, glittering, _beautiful_ smile that made Harry feel as though he were bathing in dazzling sunlight)....

Romilda reached up to touch his face and butterflies churned to life in his stomach in an achy, highly pleasant way as she rested her hand tenderly against his cheek. Harry’s eyes closed in bliss, and he stood stock still, hoping fervently that this moment would never end...her skin was so smooth and cool against his...Romilda swiped her thumb over his bottom lip, clearing away the last of the sticky liquid.

"There's a good boy," she whispered.

Her hand fell away –

Harry’s eyes shot open and a strangled grunt of despair escaped his throat at the loss, but Romilda shushed him with a single finger against his lips before turning away from him, taking his breath with her…she bent low over something in the corner, and Harry watched, transfixed, as her hair slid from her hunched shoulders to shield her face.

Harry stared at it, her shiny black hair...it looked so soft and silky…he longed to touch it, to feel it slide through his fingers...he licked his lips nervously and slowly extended his hand. Lightly, ever so lightly, he ran a finger reverently down a lock of her hair, and the feel of it nearly brought tears to his eyes….

Romilda straightened back up, turning to face Harry again, and he sucked in a breath with a sharp, shuddering gasp, like a drowning man suddenly returning to the surface...she had a small roll of carpeting clutched in her hands...he watched as she shoved a crate of _Madame Glossy’s Silver Polish_ out of the way….

 _God,_  Harry thought, his eyes tracing the curve of her nose, her lips, her jaw… _he never wanted to stop looking at her._  And it occurred to him, abruptly, that there was something he ought to tell her:

“I love you,” Harry said breathlessly, the words laying strangely on his tongue. He had never said them to anyone before.

But if felt right to say them to her.

Romilda looked up at him quickly. Her eyes, if possible, brightened, and Harry could not stop himself burying his hand fully in her thick glossy hair, sliding it around to rest gently against the back of her neck. His other hand found her waist and Romilda promptly dropped the roll of carpet, grasped the sides of Harry’s face, and plunged forward, kissing him forcefully.

The kiss was desperate and burning, Harry felt like white-hot flames were licking every inch of him, consuming him…there was nothing else in the world, only Romilda, her fingers buried in his hair, her breath on his face, her tongue inside his mouth....

Pulling Romilda still closer, Harry dimly recalled the first and last kiss he’d ever had, with Cho Chang. He reflected giddily that this was nothing like that had been, before becoming immediately and thoroughly ashamed of himself for even thinking of another girl, another _person_ , when Romilda was right in front of him, real and close and perfect against him….

The kiss seemed to go on forever; Harry couldn’t breathe properly, but he was quite sure he’d rather die of lack of oxygen than ever have to stop kissing Romilda Vane....

They stumbled backwards as one until Harry’s back hit the wall and they broke apart, gasping.

Romilda giggled breathlessly, her hands sliding down to his chest. “You’re a really good kisser, Harry....”

Harry felt his cheeks turning red, the praise sending a rush of gushing warmth through him as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate. “Thanks,” he breathed, grinning crookedly.

“Not that I’m surprised, of course,” she added, flipping her hair.

Her fingertips trailed slowly down his arms, leaving goosebumps, and ghosted lightly over his palms as she backed away from him. Harry leaned forward automatically, as though a giant magnet were pulling him toward her, but she pushed him firmly back against the wall and turned to pick up the piece of carpet she’d dropped in her haste to snog him half to death.

Harry watched, his mouth dry, as she unrolled the rug and spread it out on the floor of the cupboard. He suddenly became aware that his palms were sweaty. He hoped fervently that Romilda hadn’t noticed and wiped them quickly on his trousers…his robes must have come off sometime during their energetic snogging, but Harry did not have a thought to spare for them at the moment; Romilda shed her own robe and a second later her lips were back on his.

Harry moaned softly into her mouth…being here with her like this...it was brilliant...utterly indescribable. He felt… _happy_ , for the first time in a very, _very_ long time….

Romilda bit his bottom lip in response, and Harry was quite sure he would have fallen over if it hadn’t been for the wall supporting him. She yanked his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and shoved her hands up under it, her fingers stroking across his stomach, and Harry started to feel light-headed as blood rushed decidedly southward….

The butterflies tumbling around in Harry’s stomach kicked it into high gear as Romilda’s hands found the buckle of his belt and unfastened it, slipping it quickly from Harry’s waist in one smooth motion before tossing it aside where it clinked dully against the stone floor.

Harry’s brain felt as though it were short-circuiting, his entire body was trembling and unnaturally hot like he was burning from the inside out….

He yearned to slip his fingers under the edges of Romilda’s blouse, to touch her soft, perfect skin, but some distant, strangled part of his mind held him back…told him he might regret it, if he did….

Their lips broke apart again as Romilda reached for the buttons on Harry’s shirt. He held still as best he could and watched, panting, as her nimble fingers made quick work of them and came back up to shove the offending material off his shoulders and down his arms....

His shirt joined his belt on the floor and Romilda stood back briefly to admire him. She let out a soft, barely audible “oh” as her eyes raked over his torso, inspecting him greedily like he was a particularly delicious-looking piece of meat.

Harry suddenly felt highly exposed, a chill sweeping across his overheated skin, and his fists clenched nervously at his sides….

Romilda seemed not to notice his discomfort, and a moment later Harry had forgotten it, too, as she placed her hands on his naked chest, setting his nerves alight all over again.

“You’re so _gorgeous_ , Harry, hasn’t anyone ever told you?” asked Romilda quietly, leaning up to nuzzle his jawline. Her breath ghosted over his ear, and Harry shivered. “Everyone wonders why you don’t have a girlfriend already….”

“Nngh,” Harry answered eloquently, for just then she had fastened her lips to his neck in an open-mouthed kiss right over his pulse. Her hands were sliding further down his chest, caressing his stomach…Harry’s head fell back against the wall and his arms went around Romilda, grasping the back of her shirt in an effort to ground himself. His legs were like jelly, his brain on fire, he couldn’t think….

One of Romilda’s hands had reached the top of his trousers.

Her fingertips slipped underneath the waistband, and Harry felt the first weak flutterings of an unnamed fear ripple through his oxygen-deprived, love-sick mind...a tremor ran through his body, and that small, strangled part of his brain that had told him not to touch Romilda seemed to grow louder….

Romilda giggled into the skin of his neck. Harry closed his eyes, the material of her blouse bunching in his fingers as he gripped her more tightly, and he wondered dazedly if she had felt him shaking against her…her fingers slid suddenly past his underwear and moved even lower….

Harry froze, his brain fighting the sudden urge to shove Romilda away, his body screaming at her to keep going, and when the hand in his pants finally slid home and wrapped around him, the sharp burst of arousal was overshadowed by a sickening swoop of nausea deep in his belly.

_No…._

“N-n….” Harry tried, but Romilda’s mouth found his again and he stood there like a statue, solid and unmoving, letting her kiss him as the hand inside his trousers started to move back and forth, a furious, painful battle raging inside his head….

After a minute, Romilda withdrew her hand and pulled back, beaming up at him. Her smile faltered when she caught sight of his face. “Are you alright, Harry? You look funny. Didn’t…didn’t that feel good?” She frowned, and glanced toward the floor at her discarded robe. “Maybe you need a bit more potion….”

“N…no….” Harry managed, his hands moving jerkily to grasp her forearms as she made to turn away. “No…I…I’m fine....”

It felt like the world had suddenly tilted sideways on its axis, his thoughts were a tangled mess, he was so... _confused,_ it felt like his mind was splitting itself, rending in two…but he didn’t want to drink anymore of that potion, he knew that much….

He just needed to…to….

 _Get out of here,_ whispered the voice in the back of his head.

But that didn’t make any sense! He couldn’t leave Romilda. He had to show her that he could do what she wanted, he _loved_ her, and he had to show her how much...he had to make her happy, no matter what…she was the only important thing in the world….

_Wasn’t she?_

Romilda was watching him, her expression troubled, and Harry knew immediately that he had to fix it.

He took Romilda's hand tentatively in his own and smiled at her.

Harry supposed this must have been the right thing to do, for her face burst with happiness, like the sun shining suddenly through a dark storm cloud, and she threw her arms around him.

“I knew it,” she sighed into his chest, an unmistakable note of complacency in her voice. “I just knew you’d want this too….”

And next second she’d released him and was removing her own shirt, with a little wink at Harry, and throwing it to the floor. She toed off her shoes and socks before pushing her skirt down over her thighs and kicking it away.

Harry watched in morbid fascination as she reached deliberately behind her back and unhooked her bra. It was made out of some kind of silky black material and, despite his weird sense of growing trepidation, he couldn’t help but notice how nice it looked against her pearly skin, her dark hair….

Her eyes never leaving his, Romilda slid the straps of her bra languidly down her arms, openly reveling in the sight she knew she must be making…she plucked the garment off her body, let it dangle for a second, then dropped it to the floor on top of her shirt.

Harry's brain seemed to have jammed. He swallowed, his throat dry, as Romilda hooked her thumbs into her underwear, which were the same black material as her bra, and eased them over her hips till they slid down to join her other clothes on the floor.

He couldn’t stop himself staring as Romilda straightened back up: he had never seen a girl naked before and the reality sent both excitement and terror thundering through him all at once...he realized his hands were shaking….

“Well?” said Romilda expectantly, tossing her hair confidently over her shoulder. “Your turn.” She gestured at his trousers.

Harry glanced down at himself…his supposed it was only fair…wasn’t it?

He kicked off his shoes. His hands went hesitantly to his zip, but his bloodless fingers were trembling too hard.

“Here, let me help,” Romilda said sympathetically, as though she were offering him a great kindness. She batted his hands out of the way, and as she fumbled with the button, Harry only prayed that she would not try to make a show of undressing him...but as soon as she’d got his trousers open, she pulled them unceremoniously over his hips, underwear and all, and slid them down so Harry could step out of them.

Romilda nudged their piles of clothes into a corner with her foot, and then took both of Harry’s hands in hers, looking him up and down...Harry felt his face heat up again as her gaze lingered at his groin, and he resisted the overwhelming impulse to cover himself with great difficulty. _She wants to see you, you have to let her, she wants to…._

Romilda looked back up at his face, and he could see the honest excitement brimming in her eyes....

 _This is for her,_ he told himself, _for Romilda…just do it for Romilda…let her have what she wants…do it for her…._

Harry's thoughts echoed like a desperate mantra inside his head as she pulled him down to the floor and manoeuvred him until he was lying on his back in the center of the small carpet....

Her hand settled between his legs again and Harry could do nothing but simply lie there, his entire body so tense it ached, and let Romilda touch him. Let her touch him in a way no one had ever done, before….

The cupboard did not allow enough room to stretch out. Harry’s knees were bent up at an awkward angle and something hard was digging painfully into shoulder, but he could not bring himself to move…he was afraid if he moved, he would want to run…and he couldn’t do that to Romilda…she needed him…she loved him….

 _This isn’t…right_ , whispered the little voice, and it sounded as though it were coming from a long way away, from far beneath an ocean of thick, pink, swirling waves….

_This is…._

Good, Harry thought firmly. It’s fine, it feels…good…feels….

_Wrong. It’s wrong, god, don't…._

His hands twitched where they lay uselessly at his sides, his fingernails scraping at the thin carpet.

_Stop…._

“Please,” Harry gasped, and Romilda finally released him. For one shining moment, he thought she might be finished with him, but Romilda simply smirked and patted his cheek affectionately.

“Shh, I know….” she crooned, and a terrible feeling of dread settled thickly in Harry’s veins as she swung a leg up and over his hips so that she was straddling him. Propping up her weight with one hand on the floor next to his head, Romilda used the other to guide him inside of her, sinking down slowly until her thighs met his pelvic bone and she let out a quiet, gasping sigh.

Harry’s hands jerked up instinctively to grasp at her thighs, a heady surge of intermingled pleasure, shock, and horror crashing over him…he’d never felt anything like this in his life, there was nothing to compare it to, it was… _wrong_ …wonderful…and Romilda was suddenly moving above him, blocking out everything but the feel of her around him, the heat of her skin on his, the pressure of her knees against his ribs….

Romilda’s free hand came down to rest on the other side of Harry’s head. She tucked her head down, her hair cascading over her shoulders to spill across Harry’s chest, little gasps issuing from her open mouth….

Harry shut his eyes tight, pleasure flooding his gut and bile rising in his throat, his fingers digging into the flesh of Romilda’s thighs, and he hoped that it would… _be over soon, dear god, please…._

Harry’s grip on her legs tightened against his will, and Romilda whimpered, seizing his hands and yanking them above his head where she pinned them to the ground with both of her own. Harry tried automatically to tug his hands out of her grip, but she did not let go, and he could not find the strength within himself to fight her….

_Can’t, not allowed, don't...hurt her...._

A tight coil of pleasure was building rapidly in Harry’s lower belly, while something entirely different but equally powerful constricted his chest…Romilda moved above him…and then his back was arching off the ground as he spilled inside of her, a dry sob escaping his throat….

Romilda stopped, breathing hard, her limbs trembling with exertion. Harry slowly opened his eyes and watched helplessly as she leaned down to kiss him again, brushing briefly against his chapped lips. She pulled back a little, sighing against his cheek before her head dropped heavily onto his shoulder.

_Alright…done…she’s done…just let it be over…please…._

A few minutes passed, and Romilda straightened, rising up on her knees. But instead of climbing off of Harry, she reached down under herself to molest him again….

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on another sob.

_Don't…I don’t want to do this anymore…._

“Please….” he whimpered.

But then she was lowering herself back down, and he was inside of her again.

 

* * *

 

Harry was not sure how much time passed.

It might have been seconds, or years....

He lost track of it all…lost track of everything but Romilda, and as she used his body, he began to feel as though she were leeching something from it…from him….

Like his magic.

Or his blood.

Something enormously, deeply important….

 

* * *

 

Romilda collapsed on top of Harry again, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hips resting firmly against his, and as the two of them lay there, Harry felt a dull rushing in his veins as the last remnants of the potion burned away....

The obsessive feelings of affection for Romilda that had so consumed him had evaporated, as well as that strange, terrifying sense of devout obligation, leaving nothing in their place but a cold emptiness…a numbness so complete he felt almost as though he were not inhabiting his body at all, but simply looking down at himself from the ceiling of the broom cupboard.

Romilda shifted, releasing Harry's hands, and as she rolled off of him, Harry felt something deep inside him _give,_ and he found he did not care what happened next.

He did not care much about anything at all.

He could not even muster the energy to feel embarrassed about his nudity, or about what he and Romilda had just done. All he wanted was to lie here till the end of time, until the walls of the castle came crumbling down around him, and he’d forgotten he had ever existed....

“That was _brilliant_ ,” Romilda breathed, getting to her feet carefully and pulling her arms above her head, stretching. She turned her back on him and fished her wand out of her robes, directing various cleaning spells at herself before gathering up her clothes and starting to pull them on. “Charlene, she’s my best friend, she always did say you’d be an amazing shag, she….”

Harry lay there, unmoving, until he realized faintly that he was uncomfortably cold.

He didn't want to be cold.

With a massive effort, he rolled halfway over to rest on his side. His muscles quivered underneath the surface of his skin, and he brought his knees up slightly, trying his best to curl in on himself as Romilda’s words washed over him in a meaningless stream of noise....

She turned around, still chattering away, fixing up the last few buttons on her shirt, but then stopped mid-sentence, spotting Harry still lying on the floor.

“Are you alright?” Romilda asked him curiously, leaning over to peer into his face. She frowned and searched around in her robes before pulling out another small pink bottle. Harry’s heart thudded dully at the sight, but Romilda, rather than uncorking it, simply turned it over in her hand to read the label on the back. “According to this, there shouldn’t be any complications….” She placed the bottle back into her pocket and shrugged. “Probably you just need a rest, I’ve heard boys usually do, after….”

She considered him regretfully. “I thought we'd walk back together, but I'm sure I'd get caught if I had to drag you along half-asleep...I suppose you’re a big boy, and after all it isn’t that far, you can come back when you're ready….”

Romilda glanced about, then picked up Harry’s discarded school robe, threw it over his shivering body, and patted his shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Harry,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

With that, Romilda pushed open the door to the cupboard and stepped out into the deserted corridor.

As the door creaked shut behind her, the little dancing flame which she had conjured earlier fizzled into nothingness, and Harry was left alone in the dark.


	3. Somebody Catch My Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet!
> 
> And so we begin the rest of the story, what is always my favorite bit to read and write about: the aftermath.

Harry knew he should get up.

He knew he should get up and go straight back to Gryffindor Tower. This thought turned dimly over in his mind as he lay there in the darkness. He knew that if he could just make it back to his own bed, just curl up under his blankets and sleep, then when he woke up he would find all of this to be a dream….

His muscles would not obey his commands to move; he told himself to sit up, to stand, but he might still have been Petrified for all the good it did. It seemed strangely to him that moving was a very dangerous thing to do. That if he moved, he might awaken something, might startle into life some lurking creature that was waiting in the shadows to devour him whole.

The robe Romilda had thrown over Harry was doing little to help defend against the draughtiness of the cupboard. Shivers wracked his body so fiercely they were almost convulsions, his chest shuddering oddly as though he were burning through the last dregs of an adrenaline high.

Harry stared into the gloom.

He wished that he could Apparate – disappear and reappear suddenly in his bed out of thin air, or maybe not even reappear at all….

He already felt as if he were Apparating. Already felt like he was being sucked through that unforgiving tube of dead space, his ribs constricting, his eyes blinded and sinking deeper into his skull, his breath crushed out of his body as he was pressed relentlessly into nothingness...it was easy to imagine, lying there in the cold dark, that he did not actually exist at all…that he had accidentally slipped onto some weird, forbidden plane where being alive or dead did not mean anything, and everything was the same thing and nothing all at once-

Harry gasped suddenly; he’d been holding his breath without realizing, and he gulped down great lungfuls of air, his brain buzzing…he noted faintly that he had stopped shivering, though he was still cold.

Extremely cold.

His body felt like a solid block of ice.

He slowly became aware of his glasses digging into the side of his face, and of the burning itch in his side where it met the carpet underneath him. The itching sensation seemed to spread as he focused on it, like little biting ants crawling over all over his skin, until Harry was seized by the overwhelming need to be somewhere, anywhere, but this wretched cupboard-

He sat up abruptly, his heart stuttering into overdrive at the sudden movement. He threw off the robe and reached blindly for his pile of clothes.

_The clothes Romilda had stripped off of him, while he just stood there-_

Harry moved with the odd, jerky, movements of someone who had fallen asleep accidentally, and awoken to find they had not yet brushed their teeth, nor changed into their nightclothes….

He staggered to his feet on autopilot and bent down to step into his underwear. They felt strange against his skin as he pulled them on; his groin was wet, and sticky -

Scrambling, Harry yanked on his shirt and trousers, snatched up his belt and shoes and robe, his hand going unconsciously into his pocket, checking for his wand. His hand closed around the wood, and the tingle of warmth that travelled up his arm was the tiniest of comforts. His knuckles brushed against the light, silky material of his Invisibility Cloak, which also lay inside his pocket. He heard, distantly, as though they were coming to him through a thick wall of glass, Dumbledore’s words of caution to Harry two months ago, to always keep his Cloak on him, even within Hogwarts….

_Just in case._

Harry wrenched open the door and slipped quickly out into the corridor, fighting a sudden growing blackness around the edges of his vision.

He quickened his pace and did not look back as the door slammed loudly behind him.

It sounded like the jaws of a great beast snapping shut.

 

* * *

 

Next thing he knew, Harry was standing outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, with no memory of how he had got there. The portrait of the Fat Lady shimmered oddly before him, and Harry realized he was looking at her through his Invisibility Cloak.

He did not remember putting it on.

“Who’s that? I know you’re there…” said the Fat Lady drowsily when Harry continued to do nothing but stand there silently. She sat slumped against the edge of her frame, her eyes drooping with the lateness of the hour. “You’ll need the password, invisible or not.”

But Harry’s mind felt as blank and empty as fresh snow. His stomach dropped; he did not know the password. The space in his brain normally occupied by mundane, trivial facts seemed to have been erased somewhere in the past few hours….

“Dilligrout,” said a hollow voice, and it registered dimly with Harry that it must have been him who had spoken. He had felt his lips move. The Fat Lady stifled a yawn and waved her hand about aimlessly in agreement, swinging forward on her hinges to allow Harry to climb through the hole.

The common room was dark and silent. Stray books and papers littered the tables and chairs, their owners having gone to bed long ago. There were no flames left in the grate. Not even a single ember. The fire was dead, and Harry moved soundlessly across the room as though he were too…as though he were a ghost, wispy and frail and not-really-there….

He crept silently up the stairs and pushed open the door to the sixth year boys’ dorm.

This room, like the one below, was also dark. And oddly silent. The usual sounds of snoring and tossing and turning were glaringly absent, and this only increased Harry’s strange sense that he had walked into a peculiar dream…his feet carried him without thought, and he found himself standing beside his bed. He glanced over at Ron’s. The curtains were open – Ron was lying flat on his stomach, an arm dangling over the side of the bed, his mouth wide open on the pillow….

Harry stood there, looking down at Ron, considering him as if he were some fascinating specimen who belonged to another species. A species to which Harry did not belong, anymore….

_“You’re a really good kisser, Harry.”_

All of a sudden, the idea of falling straight into bed no longer seemed appealing – Harry couldn’t stand the feel of his clothes against his skin, they were too tight, too much, they were strangling him – they’d been on the floor of that cupboard, they were dirty, and they were making _him_ feel dirty-

Harry turned abruptly, tugging at the collar of his shirt, and stumbled towards the bathroom.

The room lit automatically as he entered and he shut the door quietly behind him, remembering at the very last second not to slam it. He couldn’t wake the others, they couldn’t see him like this, they couldn’t know….

As Harry locked the door, an oddly detached calm came over him, walling off the thumping panic into a space so small it hardly seemed a part of him, like it belonged to another Harry, a Harry who was standing just behind the real one. He pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, rolling it up and placing it on the counter, careful even now to keep it safe, to take care of it…he stripped off the rest of his clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket in the corner, avoiding looking in the mirror over the sink.

He did not want to see his reflection. Did not want to see whatever it was he could feel written all over his face. He wondered if his eyes were still their same bright green, or if they had faded to something duller.

Perhaps it wouldn’t even be his face at all, the one that everyone told him looked so much like his father’s. Maybe he would see a stranger’s face, an imposter that looked like him but wasn’t. Or maybe he would see some kind of monster. A monster with a big, black hole where a chest was supposed to be….

Harry removed his glasses, his blurry vision a strange relief, and put them on top of the Invisibility Cloak that had been his dad’s, too, just like Harry’s face, and his hands, and his wild black hair…he wondered what his father would think of him, what his mother would think, if they could see him now…see their son losing it over-

_Over…what?_

Sirius would probably say Harry was less like James than he’d thought….

Harry gripped the edge of the sink and squeezed his eyes shut.

_Less like James-_

Sirius had said that to him once, and Hermione had got so angry-

Harry lurched toward the toilet and fell to his knees in front of it, emptying the contents of his stomach. He heaved until only bile came up, and sat back, wiping his mouth. The sour smell of vomit permeated the bathroom, and Harry quickly flushed the toilet, his stomach rolling again. Goosebumps rose on his bare skin, and he staggered to his feet to turn on the tap in the shower. He waited, trembling, for the water to warm up and then stepped under the spray – the warm water barely did a thing for Harry’s icy skin, and he turned the knob as far towards hot as it would go.

He stood there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, head bent, letting the water beat down on him. It was now so hot it was scalding. Harry watched dispassionately as his arms and his belly and his feet turned bright red. He could barely feel it. He still felt weirdly cold, like a deep chill had penetrated him clear through to the bone and taken hold, and nothing so ordinary as a hot shower could pry it out of him….

Harry hugged himself tighter. _What the hell was wrong with him?_

There were strange gaps in his memory of the past few hours, and he kept recalling them in disorienting flashes….

_Romilda’s lips on his neck-_

_Her fingernails scraping his scalp-_

He had kissed her back.

He had liked it. He remembered that.

_Her hand trailing down his stomach, plunging into his pants-_

Harry reached out, bracing himself against the tile as his stomach turned over again. He felt dizzy. The steam of the shower must have gone to his head….

_He’d had sex._

The fact was so astonishing, so colossal, that he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around it. He had snogged a girl, and seen her naked, and shagged her. And she had seemed to enjoy it. A lot. So…why did he feel so...heavy?

Wasn’t this what people were supposed to do? What _teenagers_ were supposed to do?

He was sixteen. Wasn't that about right? And he was pretty sure he was the first of his friends to do anything like… _this_. Didn’t that give him…boasting rights, or something?

He imagined, for a second, the awestruck look on Ron’s face when Harry told him.

_“Blimey…you - ? With a girl? You **actually** did it? Wow…what was it like?”_

He could see Fred and George giving him the thumbs up and winking at him and wiggling their eyebrows every chance they got….

So why didn’t he feel like telling them?

Why did he feel like making sure that no one, ever, found out about it? If this was how sleeping with someone made you feel, Harry wondered how anyone ever brought themselves to do it more than once.

His forced calm faltered, and he grabbed a face cloth, lathered it heavily in soap, and started scrubbing every inch of himself he could reach.

The friction was comforting – it warmed him up, and he scrubbed harder till his skin was an even angrier red than before – he scoured his arms, his legs, his chest, his groin, cleaning away all evidence of his and Romilda’s activities, every trace of her that she’d left on him. He felt like she was under his nails, in his hair, beneath his skin....

He scrubbed feverishly until the muscles in his arm throbbed, and when he brought the cloth away from his body there was blood. Harry looked down at himself curiously and saw that he’d rubbed away a patch of skin on his stomach.

_Where Romilda’s fingers had lingered-_

It wasn’t big. A square inch or two, right below his navel. Harry stared at it for a minute, impassive, as the water washed away the last of the blood, and then wrung out the rag, making sure there was no tinge of red left on it. Nothing for the other boys or the house elves who did the laundry to find.

Harry shut off the water and stepped out. He stood there for a moment, dripping on the rug, and then reached suddenly for the stack of large, fluffy white towels, as if only just remembering that drying off was what one usually did after washing.

He wiped himself down and wrapped the towel around his waist, having no fresh clothes to change into. His mouth still tasted of sick and he went over to the sink to quickly drag his toothbrush around his mouth a few times. He gathered up his glasses, which he did not put on, and the Invisibility Cloak, which he did – he did not truly need it to leave the bathroom, he supposed, even if someone woke up. He and his roommates had all seen each other naked, or nearly so, a hundred times over the last five years. But for some reason it felt different this time, and the thought of one of them seeing him shirtless at the moment felt _(unbearable)_ awkward.

Waving his wand to douse the magical lights, Harry opened the door and slipped out into the main dormitory. He let his eyes adjust for a second and then padded over to his trunk, tossing the towel into the laundry and pulling on a clean t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He removed the Cloak and crawled, finally, into the soft comfort of his bed.

Harry stashed both wand and Cloak under his pillow and pulled his blankets snug around himself, up to his ears, glancing at the bedside alarm clock.

It read: _2.03 am._

He had enough time to get some sleep before his first class of the day, but Harry soon realised his body had decided sleep wasn’t going to happen. He tried closing his eyes a few times, but Romilda Vane’s grinning face played unremittingly across the backs of his lids, until he gave in and lay there buried under his blankets, completely unmoving, staring steadily out the window as the sky lightened slowly from inky black to a soft, pale lilac….

 

* * *

 

The drone of dozens of voices drifted up to Harry as he descended the staircase to the common room. He stifled a groan and checked his watch again; he’d felt sure most of the other Gryffindors would have gone down to breakfast by now.

The idea of facing so many people made him want to sink straight into the ground.

He’d lain awake that morning until the other boys had begun stirring and then, stiff and sore, quickly tugged his curtains closed and waited for them all to make their way out of the room. Ron had called his name hesitantly, and Harry, fearing Ron might peek in if he didn’t get an answer, managed to croak out a raspy, “I’m up.” And Ron had left.

After allowing what he thought had been sufficient time for everyone else to filter out into the rest of the castle, Harry had finally dragged himself from the warmth of his bed. His body had seemed weighed down by solid lead, but he knew he had to go to class.

There wasn’t any reason for him not to be able to go to class.

So he’d splashed some cold water on his face and attempted to tame his hair, hoping that he didn’t look as bad as he felt.

Now, Harry leaned against the smooth stone wall of the spiral staircase. After a second, he took a deep breath and steeled himself, descending the last few stairs in a hurry-

And nearly collided with Ginny Weasley.

“Oops, sorry, Harry!” said Ginny, straightening up from where she had been kneeling on the floor. “Arnold’s just been making a bid for freedom again,” she smiled, shaking her head fondly and opening her cupped hands to show him. Arnold the Pygmy Puff sat nestled between her palms, making odd little cooing noises.

“‘S alright,” said Harry quickly, readjusting his bag, “It was my fault, wasn’t watching where I was going….”

Ginny looked at him carefully, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Are you okay, Harry?”

“‘Course I am,” he said, forcing a smile. “Have you seen Ron and Hermione?”

Ginny nodded her head towards a far corner of the room, where he saw them seated together at a table. The tight obstruction in his chest seemed to ease a little.

“Thanks,” said Harry, and headed off before she could say anything else.

He could feel Ginny’s eyes on him as he made his way across the room.

“There you are!” Hermione exclaimed as he approached. Crookshanks, whom she had been petting absently, jumped hastily off her lap as she stood up. He gave an indignant sort of meow and slinked away, tail twitching high in the air. Ron whipped the Fanged Frisbee he’d been playing with at a pot plant, missed, and hit a miniscule, curly-headed first year girl in the knee, shouting a hasty “Sorry!” as she cried out in surprise and earning a look of deep disapproval from Hermione.

“Good thing you’re not trying out for Chaser, eh, Ron?” Seamus called from across the room and he and Dean Thomas both rolled around in their seats, roaring with laughter.

Ron scrunched up his face and ignored them, turning to Harry instead. “At this rate, we’re gonna have to start setting three alarms just to get you up in the mornings – c’mon, breakfast, I’m starving.” And he led the way out through the portrait hole.

Breakfast did not sound appealing to Harry in the least, but he was glad of the excuse to leave; the buzz of the crowded common room had touched off a headache near the back of his skull, and he was quite keen not to run into…anyone he might not want to run into. As soon as the portrait of the Fat Lady closed behind them, Ron looked around furtively to make sure they were alone, leaned in, and said in a low voice, “So? What happened last night?”

Harry was so startled he almost tripped over immediately. His heart leapt into this throat, his mouth going dry. “What d’you mean?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“With Dumbledore!” explained Hermione, giving him a look of exasperation. “We waited up for you for ages, but it got to be so late…we figured you’d tell us everything in the morning.”

“Oh,” said Harry, his shoulders relaxing slightly as relief swept over him. Dumbledore. _Had that really only been last night?_ “Right.”

“What time did you get back? You look tired….”

“Never mind that now,” Ron said, flapping his hands at her. “What did you do, what did he teach you?”

They were looking at him intently, and it was slightly off-putting. “Er, well, we talked about Voldemort mostly….” Harry trailed off, wracking his brains. His meeting with Dumbledore felt like a thousand years ago.

Ron flinched, as usual, at the mention of Voldemort’s name, but Hermione lit up as she stared at Harry. “Oooh, what did he tell you?”

Harry shrugged. “He told me about Voldemort’s family, about his parents –”

_About how his mother had tricked his father into taking a love potion, tricked him into marrying her, and having a child with her -_

Harry rubbed his knuckles against his palm; he felt suddenly cold again, like he’d been doused with a bucket of ice water. “Listen, can we just talk about something else?” he asked, nettled. He didn’t look at either of them.

“You said you’d tell us everything Dumbledore told you!” Ron said indignantly as they descended the staircase to the fourth floor.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t that interesting,” Harry lied. His voice sounded odd. Flat.

Ron and Hermione were both staring at him.

“Harry…are you alright? You’re very pale,” Hermione said, her voice heavy with concern.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Harry said shortly.

The three of them were silent for a few steps, and then Ron said awkwardly, “Is it…was it scary, or something? The stuff Dumbledore taught you? I mean, this whole prophecy thing is mad, I’d be terrified it were me, we wouldn’t blame you if – ”

Hermione was nodding her agreement, but Harry cut him off. “I told you, I’m fine,” he said tersely. “And I’m not _scared_ about anything.”

He sped up to walk ahead of them, but not before he saw Ron and Hermione exchange a look out of the corner of his eye. Irritation flared in Harry’s gut, but they both dropped the subject and none of them spoke again until they had reached the Great Hall and settled into their seats. Harry spooned some scrambled eggs onto his plate and picked up his fork, staring down at the food. His stomach clenched unpleasantly.

“Harry…you should really be eating more than that,” said Hermione tentatively as she surveyed his plate. “You’ve just had a growth spurt….”

Harry glared at her and pointedly speared a bite of egg on the end of his fork to pacify her. Ron appeared to be deciding whether or not to intervene, and compromised by taking a giant swig of pumpkin juice, which he promptly choked on. Hermione rolled her eyes.

After a brief round of coughing, Ron took a deep breath, and then, very red in the face, turned to Harry again. “I just realized, you haven’t heard! Not unless Dumbledore told you, but he can’t have done, it happened so late. Everyone in Gryffindor was talking about it this morning….”

“Talking about what?” asked Harry. He lowered his fork, curious despite himself.

“The second-floor corridor,” Ron told him. “Someone wrote stuff all over the walls, all this anti-Muggleborn rubbish, it was disgusting….”

Harry’s heart stuttered, his mind immediately jumping to Tom Riddle, and the Chamber of Secrets, and giant basilisks with poisonous fangs. “You mean like…?”

Ron shook his head quickly. “Nah,” he reassured Harry, “That diary’s gone, innit? But it was the same idea….” He glanced uneasily at Hermione, but she only shook her head.

“It said something about ‘Mudbloods’ and how all of us should go back where we came from or die painful deaths or some dross like that,” she said briskly. “No one really knows, do they, the teachers had most of it cleared up before anyone really saw? They don’t seem worried, and neither am I,” she finished coolly, and pulled out her Arithmancy textbook, propping it open against a milk jug.

“Oh come off it!” Ron scoffed. “Since when do the teachers know everything about what goes on in this place? Merlin knows we’ve done our share of breaking the rules without them noticing a damn thing….”

Hermione sniffed, and Harry almost smiled.

“Do they know who did it?” he asked, his eyes wandering automatically over to the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy sat laughing at a joke Pansy Parkinson had just told him. He looked entirely too smug, in Harry’s opinion…Malfoy noticed Harry staring and winked, bursting into another round of laughter.

“No,” Ron said, and scowled, his eyes following Harry’s gaze. “But I can think of a good bet….”

A companionable silence settled over them as Ron and Hermione tucked into their meal. Harry pushed his eggs around his plate, contemplating what they had told him. His mind seized on the welcome distraction, and he turned it all over in his mind…he wondered whether Malfoy (for Harry was already convinced it was him) would be stupid enough to risk doing something like it again, and if it might be possible to catch him at it….

Hagrid came in halfway through breakfast and smiled brightly at Harry, waving. Harry smiled back, with a mouth that didn’t feel quite like his, and watched absently as Hagrid turned to talk to Professor McGonagall. Harry entertained himself with highly pleasant scenarios involving Malfoy being expelled, until he realized that Ron and Hermione were both finishing up.

Harry took a last sip of water and leaned down to grab his bag. “What have we got first today? Charms?” He couldn’t quite remember. His timetable seemed oddly fuzzy to him, like it had been years since he’d had to follow it. When he received no answer, he looked up.

Hermione and Ron were staring at him. They looked curiously at each other, and Harry wondered, annoyed, why they were acting so strangely until Hermione said slowly:

“It’s…Sunday, Harry.”

Harry stared back at them, his brow furrowing. _Sunday? That didn’t seem right…._

But he supposed it would have be. Yesterday had been Saturday, the day Dumbledore had scheduled to meet with him; it made sense, now, why all the Gryffindors hadn’t cleared out of the Tower by the time he’d got up.

“Oh,” Harry said. “Right, yeah, ‘course…Sunday….”

After a minute, he realized he was staring off into space, and he shook his head.

Ron and Hermione were still looking at him.

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright, Harry?” Hermione tried again.

But Harry waved her off and stood, forcing a laugh. He shouldered his bag. “I’m fine, Hermione, can’t a bloke forget the day of the week once in a while? Fancy going for walk, then, since we don’t have class?” he asked, trying to sound thoroughly sane, and hoped they’d go for his suggestion. The magical ceiling of the Great Hall was a clear, bright blue, dotted with puffs of fluffy white clouds. It was a nice day to be outside. He didn’t want to have to go back to Gryffindor quite yet, if they didn’t need to….

Ron and Hermione agreed but kept shooting Harry worried glances, and by the time they made it to the entrance hall, Harry could feel that bitter taste of panic trying to claw its way back up his throat. He stopped in the middle of the hall, his thoughts beginning to race…he could feel something coming on, something screaming to get out of him, and wished suddenly, desperately, that he was alone. But he did not want to wander off by himself…since he’d got up that morning, he’d had the most inexplicable feeling, a weird, childish urge to never let Ron and Hermione out of his sight again….

_If they were always with him, then he couldn’t be alone, and no one would be able to find him, and trap him, and steal from him-_

The pressure in the back of his skull was growing fast, his head was pounding....

Ron and Hermione stopped, too, and looked back, realising Harry wasn’t with them; Hermione came back over to him and peered into his face, frowning. She said something, but Harry didn’t catch it…her voice sounded muffled…Harry stared at a single spot on the stone floor and tried to focus on breathing…his vision was going fuzzy….

Hermione said something again and reached out, gently putting a hand on his arm, and Harry’s skin crawled, erupting in goosebumps where she’d touched him.

_What was happening to him?_

Harry flinched away from her.

“Er, bathroom – ” he gasped and turned on the spot, pushing through a group of Hufflepuffs on their way to breakfast. Harry distantly heard Ron calling after him, but he didn’t stop – he walked as fast as he could and when he was sure he was out of sight of any other students, he broke into a run.

Harry’s feet carried him automatically to the nearest boys’ bathroom, which was usually blessedly deserted this time of day. He hurtled inside and, after quickly checking to make no one else was in any of the stalls, locked himself in.

He fell back against the door, breathing heavily through his nose…his thoughts were spinning so fast it was impossible to catch up…he felt like _he_ was spinning, he was so dizzy, and his hands were starting to tingle…Harry staggered to a sink and bent over it. He did not think he was going to be sick, but it had come on so suddenly last night, he’d had no warning…a dull pain flared across the skin of his stomach as he leaned against the porcelain, and Harry moved his robes and shirt out of the way to look.

He’d forgotten about the burn he’d accidentally given himself in the shower, the skin he’d rubbed raw, and he examined it for the first time. It had scabbed over but was still tender…it would be fully healed in a few days…Harry dropped the hem of his shirt and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cold water. It helped a bit. He tried to focus on calming down. He was breathing too fast, becoming more and more light-headed, he felt like he was going to pass out….

_He needed another shower._

But he couldn’t go back to the Tower, not yet, in case _she_ was-

Harry turned the water quickly to hot and shoved his hands under the stream.

It instantly burned his skin, but he did not move, and before long he started to feel a little calmer…the pain was grounding him, and after a while his breath stuttered slowly back to normal. Harry opened his eyes (he didn’t remember closing them) and looked down at his hands. They were a vivid, ugly red. Harry turned off the tap, his fingers aching, and gripped the sides of the sink. He stared, unseeing, at the drain.

He reckoned he should probably run some cold water over his abused skin, but he did not move.

Harry's eyes flicked up, taking in his reflection for the first time in nearly two days.

He did not look any different. He still had the same black hair, the same nose, the same green, almond-shaped eyes, like his mum’s. Only his were stained a light purple underneath like he had never seen in the pictures he had of her.

He looked the same.

And, yet, there was something…off. It took Harry a few minutes to realize what it was.

He looked... _weak_. Like he might fracture at the lightest touch. He did not know if anyone else could notice - but he could. He could see it clearly.

The memory of himself cowering away from Hermione only minutes before sprang up in his mind, and the boy in the mirror grimaced. Harry felt a brief flicker of hatred, and he had a sudden, fierce urge to hit the face staring back at him, _to punch, and punch, and punch until it shattered into a million broken pieces-_

A knock at the door made Harry jump, startling him out of his thoughts, and he knew instantly that Ron had followed him.

Harry glanced at his reflection again, shaking his head to clear it, and went to unlock the door.

 

* * *

 

Harry went to bed early that night. He begged off dinner, claiming he wasn’t feeling well, and in light of his unusual behaviour that morning, Ron and Hermione did not seem to have any trouble believing this.

After mumbling his goodnights to them, Harry trudged slowly up the stairs to the dormitories. He had two essays and a sketch for Herbology due tomorrow, but he reckoned he would just have to find time in the morning. He was utterly exhausted, even though all he’d done that day was sit out in the grounds in the sunshine, and then, when Hermione had insisted on dragging both him and Ron to the library to get some work done, dozed off on a stack of books.

There hadn’t been any…run-ins with Romilda, but Harry had found himself on high alert all day, constantly glancing around himself, and scanning every room he walked into for any sign of her…well, Moody would have been proud, Harry thought dejectedly, and despite his impromptu nap in the library, he felt more tired than ever. It was with great relief that he pushed open the door to his bedroom.

But Harry had hardly taken one step inside when he froze. The room was empty of any other occupants, but it felt…not quite right, like there was something here that shouldn’t be. Harry’s eyes searched the room and fell upon his own bed – there was a box sitting on it.

A box that had not been there this morning.

Harry approached it cautiously, as though afraid it might jump up at any second and bite him. It wasn’t wrapped, but tied neatly with a curly pink bow. There was a folded red note on top that simply read _‘Harry.’_

Harry’s heart sped up, beating a tattoo against his chest. He was quite sure he knew who the package was from, and he reached out mechanically, almost against his will, to pick up the note. It smelled of rosy perfume. Harry unfolded the paper.

Inside it said _‘For last night’_ with several hearts drawn next to it.

Harry stared down at the bold, curling script, the letters blurring together, and then his fist closed around the paper, crumpling it in his hand. The box on his bed drew his gaze, and he saw that it was a container of chocolates.

Harry stood stock still for a moment and then, quite suddenly as if he’d been planning it, the straining tension that had been building inside him all day _snapped_ like huge elastic band and he seized the chocolates, hurling them at the wall as hard as he possibly could.

They hit the wall with a hard _thwack_ but did not burst open, like he’d hoped, and simply fell to the floor, landing behind his bedside table.

Harry stood there, breathing hard, and tried to determine what it was he was feeling – a dozen conflicting emotions had rushed up inside him all at once and interpreting them was like trying to discern a murmuring voice on a staticky radio….

_She had been up here, in his room, had touched his blankets, his bed…._

A blazing burst of anger pushed to the forefront and he seized on it immediately, letting it fill him up and burn away everything else.

He viciously ripped up the note in his hand into little tiny pieces and let them fall to the floor, where they lay spread about like so much St. Valentine’s Day confetti. Harry dug around in his pocket and pulled out his wand, pointed it at the pile of shredded paper, and snarled, _“Incendio!”_ He watched as the pieces of Romilda’s note burned up into nothing and then Vanished the ashes, leaving no trace.

Harry had no clue when she had come up here, or if anyone had seen her. If anyone had seen the package she had left sitting out in the open, for all the world to see….

_“I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Harry….”_

His eyes burned, a lump rising in his throat, and he sank down on his bed, burying his face in his hands. Hot, boiling tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, but he squeezed his lids shut tight and did not let them fall.

He was _not_ going to cry over this.

Over a girl giving him a stupid box of sweets. He pressed his fingers into his eyes until he saw stars; his chest was constricting again, his insides felt clawed up and raw, like a wild animal was fighting to escape them. For a brief moment, Harry had an overwhelming desire to go find Ron and Hermione, to tell them about everything that had happened, about him being Confunded and Petrified and force-fed that potion, and about how even his own bedroom wasn’t safe anymore _because she’d been there-_

But it sounded stupid, even to him, and he could already hear Hermione’s rational explanations about how Harry _must_ have really wanted it to happen – he and Romilda couldn’t have successfully done _that_ , could they, if he hadn’t? He saw, in his mind’s eye, Ron waving him off and telling Harry not to worry, it was normal… _it’s not that big a deal, don’t question it. Be grateful. Any bloke would kill to be in your shoes…._

Harry growled in frustration, ripping a hand from his face and bringing it down, hard, to smash against the wooden bedframe. He had to bite his lip to stifle a shriek of pain, but his mind felt instantly clearer. He felt more in control of himself, and the lump in his throat began to dissolve.

No, he was not going to tell Ron or Hermione. He was not going to tell anyone.

Harry’s exhaustion seemed to increase tenfold as he sat there. He slumped back on his bed fully clothed, not even bothering to kick off his shoes. His pillow smelled of roses – the sickly-sweet scent invaded Harry’s nose and clung to his cheek. He wondered if Romilda had sprayed his sheets with the same perfume she had used on her note and felt the corners of his eyes prick again. But the thought of getting up to strip the bed was unthinkable, and he waved his wand tiredly, muttering a Freshening Charm. It helped marginally – he had never quite got the hang of cleaning spells….

Harry turned over, wand still in hand, and closed his eyes, praying to anyone who might be listening just to let him sleep.

 

* * *

 

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Harry rolled over, half-asleep, putting his back to the door. He did not want to see anyone….

 _Don’t come in here,_ he thought sluggishly, _go away…Ieave me alone…._

But the door opened a second later and he heard Ron call softly. “Harry?”

The door closed. Quiet footfalls over to Harry’s bed.

“You awake?” Ron asked, still more quietly.

Harry kept his eyes shut…he did not think he had the energy to open them anyway….

“Hermione was worried, she wanted me to come check on you….”

Through his grogginess, Harry felt a vague sense of gratitude that she had sent Ron and not come up herself…had not trespassed where she wasn’t supposed to be….

“We brought you back some dinner, in case you were hungry.”

Ron’s voice was barely a whisper now. There was the sound of a plate sliding onto the bedside table. The smell of roast beef and vegetables.

Ron sighed.

Harry felt his shoes being taken off…his glasses were gently removed, and he heard Ron fold them and place them on the table….

He did not take Harry’s wand from his hand.

There was silence again…the hair on the back of Harry’s neck prickled, and an image of Ron standing there, staring down at him, filled his mind….

Then there were footsteps crossing the room again, the door opening, and Ron was gone.

 

* * *

 

The next time Harry woke, there was more than one pair of footsteps ascending the stairs, and though his back was to the alarm clock, he knew it must be late. The door opened again and he could tell all four of his dorm mates were coming in to get ready for bed.

Seamus laughed loudly at something Dean had just said, and Ron quickly shushed him.

“Keep it down, will you?” whispered Ron furiously. “He’s not feeling well.”

Harry felt all their eyes linger momentarily on his prone form.

“Is he alright?” came an anxious voice.

Neville.

The sounds of trunks opening and pyjamas being pulled on….

“Yeah….” Ron said lowly. “Yeah, I think so. Just not feeling well….”

As the other boys climbed into bed, Harry found himself wondering listlessly what they would all think if they knew the real reason he wasn’t feeling well…if they knew it was because he’d had sex…had sex with a pretty girl, who’d left him chocolates next day….

He knew what they would think.

They would all laugh themselves silly….

Harry dug his nails sharply into his arm as a wave of self-loathing crashed over him, so strong it made him feel ten years old again, huddled on the little cot in his cupboard in Privet Drive, adrift and alone and waiting…waiting for a long lost someone to rescue him, and take him away from his nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a [tumblr](http://anhourofwolvesfic.tumblr.com) for this a while ago, just as sort of a companion blog where I could gather inspiration for/stuff that reminds me of this fic. I do post some stuff related to future events so maybe beware of possible spoilers? But probably nothing you can't gather from the tags lol. Anyway it's there to peruse if you're interested in lil fic extras! <3


	4. Trials and Tribulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this got away from me lol. Three thousand words longer than expected, and even angstier than I intended, have fun kids.

Life settled into a comfortable rhythm for the occupants of the castle over the following week, as it always did after the whirlwind first week of classes. The first years were gradually learning to navigate the twisting corridors and jump the trick stairs and stopped getting lost so much on their way to lessons, the older students were gradually learning to accept their doomed fates as O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students who had suddenly very little free time and quite a lot more stress, and that usual, somewhat surreal air of nervous excitement which surrounded returning to Hogwarts faded naturally into the feeling that they had never really left.

A brutal wind had blown up around the castle, whipping steadily across the grounds and sneaking through the gaps under doors, rattling the windows in their frames and chilling the hallways.

This, Harry brooded as he shifted positions uncomfortably, must certainly be why he was so bloody freezing all the time now, and he pulled his robes more tightly around himself.

It was his Friday morning free period and he was sitting crouched in one of Hogwarts’ secret passageways, hidden behind a tapestry, head bent low over the Marauder’s Map. He scanned the miniaturised drawings of classrooms and corridors, eyes darting about rapidly, searching…he had just seen… _there!_ Harry smacked his finger to the parchment triumphantly, tracing the little dot labeled ‘Draco Malfoy’ as it moved down one of the tiny staircases, flanked by two other dots marked ‘Gregory Goyle’ and ‘Theodore Nott’. Malfoy was heading to the ground floor…he, Harry, was only one floor above! He thought quickly…if he left the passageway and used the stairs to the right, he could overtake Malfoy easily in minutes. But if he followed the passage, it would take less time…though that would lead to more classrooms, and a higher chance of getting caught…Harry rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm them. He wasn’t out-of-bounds, but he would rather no one knew what he was up to, not yet…not until he had proof….

Harry’s elbow brushed a small lump of material balled up inside his pocket, just over his hip, and he nearly startled as it struck him: his Invisibility Cloak!

It was so obvious he felt stupid for not realising it earlier. But then again, he supposed as he fished it out of his pocket, he wasn’t quite yet used to having it with him all the time, before now he’d always kept it in his trunk when he was at school.

Well, that settled that, he decided – he’d take the shortcut. A thrill of anticipation and purpose raced through Harry as he made to stand.

But then he hesitated, checking Malfoy’s progress: he and his lackeys were on the ground floor now, and they were heading toward the dungeons…Harry felt quite sure that if they were about to deface something or cause any trouble, it would be out in the open again for the whole school to see, not down in the dungeons…Harry sat still another minute and watched the three dots rove deeper into the bowels of the castle, and then pass through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, as he’d suspected they might.

Harry slumped back against the wall, disappointed.

This was the third time this week he had sat hidden away in a secluded section of the castle, alone, waiting for Malfoy to make a mistake…to perhaps wander off somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, or to linger too long anywhere that was not a classroom, or a bathroom….

And this was the third time he had been left with absolutely nothing to show for it.

Harry knew Malfoy was up to something. He knew it had been Malfoy who’d written those foul things on the wall in the second-floor corridor, and if no one else was going to do anything about it, then Harry would.

It had not been difficult, these past few days, to slip away unnoticed by Ron and Hermione whenever they started up into one of their usual rounds of bickering. They had been doing that quite a lot recently. Bickering, that was. Harry supposed that they had always done that – had always liked to needle each other to the point of exasperation, but he had noticed a definite uptick over the summer, and he had a sneaking suspicion as to why that might be.

And he was not sure how to feel about it.

About the possibility of Ron and Hermione…what? _Abandoning him? Shutting him out forever, so they could be on their own?_

But Harry mentally kicked himself. Surely that would never happen. They had, both of them, stuck by Harry, even through some pretty tough times, and he was certain that wouldn’t change just because they might want to start dating each other.

Harry let out a quick puff of air. His free period was already half over, and he still had to run back to the Tower to get his books before his next class. Resigned, Harry quickly rolled up the Marauder’s Map and tucked it back inside his robes. He climbed to his feet and stretched, pulling his arms briefly above his head. His back was aching and sore from sitting still for so long, and he took a moment to stretch that out too, his spine popping in several places.

Cautiously, Harry poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he stepped out from behind the tapestry.

He had to switch up his strategy, Harry thought as he made his way toward the stairs, mulling over his Malfoy problem again…the Slytherins (collectively, for Harry was positive Malfoy'd had help) had last struck in the middle of the night, and Harry had so far only managed to post himself throughout the school at random times of the day, whenever a break in his timetable allowed it. It would make more sense to keep watch at night…it was not as though this would interfere with all the solid sleep he was getting, he considered ruefully...but then again, there was the risk of getting locked out of Gryffindor Tower if the Fat Lady decided to visit another portrait….

“Hi Harry!” a voice called brightly behind him.

Harry’s hand jerked, ready to draw his wand, but as he turned and saw who it was, his arm fell back to his side.

“Hi Luna,” said Harry, relieved in spite of himself. The sight of her, wearing her usual radish-shaped earrings, blonde hair as long and straggly as ever, was oddly comforting, and his heart stuttered back to normal. He realised with a twinge of unhappiness that he had not seen her properly since they had shared a compartment on the train. As she caught up to him, Harry dug his hands into his pockets and turned automatically so that they were walking together.

“What are you doing down here? Haven’t you got class?” Harry asked her.

“Oh yes,” Luna nodded serenely. “Charms. But Laura Hinkley accidentally overdid her Summoning Charm and smacked herself in the face with a globe. She broke her nose and knocked out two front teeth, so Professor Flitwick ended class early to take her to the hospital wing. I feel a bit badly for her – I would feel much worse, only she’s one of the girls who calls me ‘Loony’ sometimes,” she said matter-of-factly.

Harry grinned at her, and he was surprised to find it came easily. He hadn’t grinned in what felt like ages.

“I’m glad you got out early, then. It’s nice to see you,” he told her sincerely.

Luna’s wide, silvery eyes lit up, and she absolutely beamed at him. “It’s very nice to see you, too, Harry.”

They chatted companionably through a few more corridors, and as Luna told him all about her first week of school, Harry scratched absently at his wrists.

His hands itched all the time now; the strange, intense urges to bathe himself had not abated over the last week and had continued to strike him randomly at thoroughly inconvenient times. He wasn’t, of course, able to sneak away half a dozen times a day just for a shower, so he had found himself slipping into the bathroom between classes and meals to quickly shove his hands under some hot water. It seemed to help suppress his odd new compulsion, but the skin on his wrists and the backs of his hands was now cracked and dry, and he had begun to develop tiny blisters.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what was driving this weird impulse. Perhaps it was his now seemingly permanent case of the chills – a hot shower seemed to be the only thing that could sufficiently warm him up these days.

Or perhaps it was the fact that he now felt very like he had done after witnessing Nagini’s attack on Mr. Weasley the year before and subsequently hearing some of the members of the Order speculate that he might have been possessed without his knowing…Harry remembered, very clearly, how…separate…from everyone else he had felt on the train ride home from visiting Mr. Weasley at St. Mungo’s – contaminated, infected... _dirty_ ….

Harry found himself thinking, sometimes, though he tried very hard not to, about that night in the broom cupboard with Romilda. He had neither properly seen nor heard from her since the evening she had left him chocolates in his room, and Harry felt quite certain that the best thing he could do would be to just forget about what had happened between them. The only problem with this, however, was that she seemed to have transferred something to him that night. Left some parasite on his skin that had crawled up inside him and latched on, releasing a kind of vile toxin that made him itch all over, made him feel like he had a thin layer of living grime sitting just underneath the surface of his skin…Harry found that the feeling went away, for just a little while, after he’d scrubbed himself sufficiently, though he could never quite seem to fully eradicate it.

Harry pulled his sleeves down over his hands and shoved them back into his pockets, forcefully shelving all thoughts of Romilda Vane and focusing instead on Luna’s animated description of a Blibbering Humdinger her father had claimed he’d seen a month before.

“Anyway,” Luna said as they climbed another set of stairs together, “what were you doing down there, all by yourself?”

Harry shrugged. “Enjoying the view,” he said as though it were obvious, gesturing grandly at the exceptionally uninteresting bare stretch of wall they were passing, and Luna broke out into giggles. She snorted slightly, which Harry might usually have found a bit grating, but coming from Luna he found it somehow endearing, and he felt his spirits lift considerably as he watched her, another smile tugging at his lips.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Luna stopped and turned to Harry, tucking her wand more securely behind her left ear. “Well, I suppose I’d better be heading back. I’ve got Care of Magical Creatures next, and I’m afraid I’m already quite late,” she said, smiling widely. “See you, Harry!”

“Bye, Luna,” said Harry, her words sinking in as she climbed back down the stairs. She hadn’t been heading this way at all, then, but had simply walked with Harry to keep him company, even though he had made her late for class.

Harry watched her go, a fierce sort of affection rising in his chest, and hoped, as Luna disappeared around the corner, that Laura Hinkley’s broken nose was still smarting.

 

* * *

 

“Been stalking Malfoy again, have you?” Ron said offhandedly without looking up from his Charms text as Harry plopped into the chair next to him and put his feet up on the table.

Harry laced his fingers over his stomach and did his best to look highly affronted. “Who says I’ve been stalking him?”

Ron glanced up at him, giving him a _look_ that said quite plainly he wasn’t fooled, and Harry gave in.

“Yeah, alright,” he shrugged easily, and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

He heard Ron snort and turn a page. “Don’t know why you’re wasting your time….”

Harry lifted his head again to look at Ron incredulously. “What, you _don’t_ think it was him who wrote that rubbish in that corridor? You said you did!”

“‘Course it was,” Ron agreed, squinting at a footnote. “It’s just…I mean, how d’you think you’re going to catch him at it? Better to just wait and see if he does it again, and then you can see what his game is, where he’ll make his next move….” Ron trailed off, tapping his quill against the table as he looked something up in his text’s index.

Harry stared at him. It was no wonder Ron Weasley won every game of chess he ever played, he thought wryly. But it was, in Harry’s opinion, a moot point. He had admittedly already considered this strategy and discarded it – after all, what if Malfoy ended up hurting someone next time? But when Harry voiced this concern to Ron, he merely laughed.

“Malfoy? Come on, Harry, he’s a filthy rotten creep, yeah, but he’s a _cowardly_ filthy rotten creep,” Ron pointed out, closing his book and leaning back against the wall, mirroring Harry’s position. “Since when has he ever done anything more than stand there insulting people, and threaten everyone with his father?”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Harry pressed. “His father’s in prison, isn’t he, and now Draco thinks it’s his job to prove the Malfoys aren’t all worthless, they’re still useful…hey!” A sudden idea had just struck him. “D’you reckon he’s working for Voldemort already?”

Ron cringed at the name but did not attempt to challenge Harry’s use of it. “Are you serious? What would You-Know-Who want with a slimy, spineless little git who’s not even fully qualified yet?” Ron shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“Well, I still reckon he ought to be expelled either way,” Harry said grimly. “I mean, you do realise it was people like Hermione he said should pop their clogs, don’t you? I thought you’d be more upset about this….”

“I am!” Ron said indignantly, sitting up a little straighter and frowning down at Harry. “I just think you’re getting a bit obsessed, that’s all….”

“Who’s getting obsessed with what?” asked Hermione, who had just appeared next to them. She set down a rather large stack of books and pushed Harry’s feet off the table, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “boys” and “respecting the furniture.”

“Harry’s getting obsessed with Malfoy,” Ron informed her as she sat down across from them.

“Oh, that,” she agreed conversationally. “Yes, I do think you’re putting a bit too much energy into it, frankly, Harry…until you’ve got proof – ”

“Ron thinks I’m right that he’s up to something, don’t you?” Harry demanded, but Ron simply held up his hands as if to say ‘sorry, nothing I can do’ and Harry glared at him.

Hermione ignored both of them. “Until you’ve got _real_ proof, there’s really no point in wandering about the school, wasting time when you should be studying….”

“And how am I supposed to get proof without going looking for it, wait for it to fall into my lap?” Harry challenged.

But Hermione seemed to have lost interest in discussing the matter, giving him a stern look but declining to answer. Harry looked away in defeat, vowing to bring it up again next chance he got. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione looking him up and down, as though inspecting him for any visible signs of an ailment.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Between Harry’s frequent trips to the bathroom and his continued lack of appetite, Ron and Hermione had started to express the concern that Harry might have come down with some sort of stomach illness. Every time Harry had looked at food for the past week, he’d felt a rolling sense of nausea, and after several days of consuming only water, tea, and modest portions of whatever soup the kitchens had produced that day, Hermione had become increasingly insistent that he should try to eat a bit more. It was just no use telling her he wasn’t hungry, and that probably he wouldn’t be able to keep any of it down anyway; her incessant harassment was starting to wear on him, and he had begun to find a certain bitter pleasure in refusing her demands….

Just then the bell rang, much to Harry’s relief, and the three of the them headed off to Charms, where he knew Hermione would have blessedly little time to focus on his well-being, physical or otherwise.

 

* * *

 

The next day dawned grey and calm. Overcast, but no sign of rain yet, and the brutal wind had died down to almost nothing. Perfect Quidditch conditions, and Harry could not have been more pleased – it was Gryffindor tryouts today, his first official duty as Captain of the team, and he wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible.

The thought of the good weather sustained Harry all the way down to breakfast, and he even managed to get down three sausages and a pile of eggs before Hermione announced over the morning paper that Stan Shunpike had been arrested.

“ _What?_ ” he and Ron both said at once.

Hermione read the rest of the article aloud, and it seemed clear to the three of them that the Ministry had now reached a point of desperation, and had resorted to merely constructing the appearance of doing something about the growing threats to the community they were supposed to be protecting, even if it meant jailing innocent people.

Harry sat there silently as Hermione and Ron continued to discuss the subject, fingernails scraping absently against the back of his wrist, and glanced up at the staff table. For a while he watched Dumbledore, who was deep in conversation with Professor Flitwick, and wondered when their next lesson together would be.

Harry certainly wasn’t managing to do much on his own to improve his chances of helping to win the war: with his growing inability to concentrate properly in lessons and an ongoing struggle to get a full night’s sleep, Harry’s classes had become an even bigger challenge than before. The printed words of his textbooks blurred together and sometimes did not even seem like they were written in proper English, and he would find himself reading the same sentence a dozen times as his mind wandered off completely. His teachers’ voices oftentimes faded to a dull buzz that he had trouble deciphering and he would feel his eyelids getting heavier and heavier, until he was inevitably nudged awake by Ron’s elbow, or startled by the bell.

And the worst part was he could feel himself beginning not to care.

He _wanted_ to care, he knew how important his education was _(what use was he to anyone else as an underqualified wizard)_ but he sensed his motivation for schoolwork slipping through his fingers and he did not know how to stop it. What was the point in trying, after all, if he couldn’t keep any of it inside his brain….

Harry knew his marks were already starting to suffer for it.

He’d caught McGonagall frowning at him more than once, and Flitwick had handed Harry’s last essay back to him with a rather baffled look of dismay. Slughorn, with a rather melodramatic expression of pure agony on his round, walrus-y face, had expressed his profound consternation that the evidence of the talent Harry had obviously inherited from his mother had disappeared so entirely and had offered to tutor Harry privately.

But the thought of being alone for hours on end with Professor Slughorn, who often looked at Harry as if he were a delicious prize to be won and whom Harry did yet know very well, was deeply unsettling to him for reasons he did not know how to name, and Harry had flat-out refused this proposition as politely as he possibly could.

The breakfast Harry had managed to get down churned unpleasantly in his stomach, and he shoved his plate away, blaming it somewhat truthfully on the nerves of the upcoming tryouts when Hermione asked him if that was all he was going to eat.

 

* * *

 

The weather held as Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way down to the Quidditch stadium fifteen minutes later.

Ginny caught up to them about halfway down, her broom over her shoulder, and was joined shortly thereafter by Dean, which Harry would not have minded, as he liked Dean quite a lot, except that he casually slipped his hand into Ginny’s, and this seemed to coincide with a slight dip in Harry’s mood (although he saw Ron glance pointedly at their clasped hands and felt a bit better).

A rather large crowd had already gathered by the time they reached the pitch, and Hermione departed to find a seat in the stands, wishing them all a hasty good luck. Ron, Ginny, and Dean wandered off to join the rest of the hopefuls, leaving Harry alone to survey the massive group of applicants. Harry couldn’t believe how many people had shown up…he tried to perform a quick headcount but it was impossible to tell for sure, as everyone kept moving around. Definitely more than had ever turned up to trials over Harry’s previous years on the team. He felt his nerves flutter again….

Harry glanced up at the grey sky, thinking he had better get things started up before it decided to rain, and felt a faint tug on his sleeve. He looked back and abruptly found himself face to face with Romilda Vane – a sharp bolt of lightning seemed to lance through Harry in the millisecond it took for him to recognise her face, and he stepped back hastily without thinking.

“Harry,” she said, smirking, and Harry was oddly surprised to find that her voice sounded perfectly normal. Like it could have belonged to any other girl.

“Hello, Romilda,” said Harry evenly. He forced himself to stand his ground, even though what he really wanted to do was turn around and march across the field until he was as far away from her as possible. The vague beginnings of a headache throbbed to life at the back of his skull, but the panic that he had felt every time he had thought of her over the past week did not come. In fact, he suddenly felt terribly, mercifully blank. “Er – what are you doing here?”

“Trying out!” she beamed, gesturing at the crowd behind her, and winked conspiratorially. “Figured I had an in with the Captain….”

Harry gave her a tight smile and thought privately that Snape had a better chance of winning a tap-dancing competition than Romilda did of getting on this Quidditch team. “Right. Well, if you’ll just wait over there….” He tried to direct her back over to the others.

“And anyway,” she continued as if Harry had not spoken, “I haven’t heard from you, did you like your present?” She gave him a knowing smile.

_A box, a little box on his bed, and a note that smelled of roses-_

_She had-_

**_“Please….”_ **

_been in his room-_

**Don’t.**

His fresh headache gave a nasty throb.

“I don’t like chocolate,” Harry said stiffly.

“Oh! Well, if you – ”

“And like I said, you can wait over there with everyone else,” he told her, pointing.

Romilda’s expression faltered for a moment at his tone, but she recovered quickly. “Sure, if you like….” She moved as if to touch Harry’s arm, but he jerked it abruptly out of her reach, and her hand fell back to her side. The barest trace of annoyance flashed across her face, and then she smirked at him again and walked away to rejoin the group.

Harry watched her go, and wished it were just a bit sunnier; the cool breeze seemed to have taken on a harder edge….

Harry wiped his palms on his trousers, squared his shoulders, and lifted the whistle hanging round his neck to his lips, giving it a sharp blast. The talk died down immediately as everyone turned to face him.

“Alright, you lot,” he announced firmly, “we’re going to start with the basics, I want you to split up into groups of ten….”

“So assertive,” someone whispered, and several girls broke out into hysterical giggles. Harry pointedly ignored them and began relaying instructions to the first group of ten to fly once around the pitch so he could get a sense of their abilities.

Romilda Vane was in the second group. When Harry blew his whistle, not a single one of them kicked off from the ground, but merely dissolved into another fit of giggles, and Harry felt irritation flare in his empty chest.

“Leave now, please!” he barked at them, before turning to the rest. “And if there’s anyone else here who’s not going to take it seriously then you can get off this field….”

Romilda and her friends ran off the pitch, still laughing, and Harry noted with annoyance that they did not head back up to the castle but rather went to sit in the stands to watch everyone else. Harry grimaced, scratching his hand, the pressure in the back of his head increasing, and turned to direct the third group….

The rest of the trials took several hours and were somewhat of a blur. Harry could feel sweat running down his back despite the cool weather; he focused all his concentration on the players before him and did not look into the stands, though he imagined, in the back of his mind, that Romilda’s eyes were following him…he thought Hermione might have tried to wave at him once, when he’d finished the flying tests and the Chaser candidates had stepped forward, to give him the thumbs up, but he steadfastly refused to look in her direction…he was vaguely sure she was sitting in the row just above Romilda…the pulsing heaviness in Harry’s head seemed to be growing, twisting….

Harry watched, trying to absorb every detail, as each Chaser attempted to score as many goals as possible; Katie Bell was still as good as ever, and it was no tough decision to welcome her back on the team; Demelza Robins, whom Harry had only seen in passing before now, was a nice surprise, and had a particular talent for avoiding Bludgers; Ginny Weasley scored more goals than anyone before her, and managed to look damn good while doing it (although Harry didn’t suppose this was relevant to her Chasing abilities, and it did not, of course, have any bearing on her acceptance to the team).

By the time Harry had chosen two new Beaters, Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote, he had shouted down several arguments and complaints from those who had failed to make the cut – normally he would have found this infuriating, but as it was Harry couldn’t seem to muster any real sense of exasperation.

As Jimmy and Ritchie went to join the other spectators, Harry glanced toward the stands. Romilda was still there.

Harry’s head pulsed again, and he wiped a bead of sweat off his temple, turning to watch Ron, who had flown up to the goal posts to start his trial for Keeper. Ron looked like he might be sick, and Harry felt his stomach dip in sympathy, but Ron managed to save all five penalties without much trouble, something no other Keeper applicant had managed to do, and Harry felt a relieved delight try to stir in his heart as Ron landed to the cheers of the crowd.

With the excitement over, the onlookers began to file quickly out of the stadium, and Harry waited until Cormac McLaggen (who had done second best as Keeper but who also seemed to possess both a nasty temper and the idea that Harry had not given him a fair shot) had stomped off to the castle, aiming a kick at one of the benches as he went, before making his way over to Ron and thumping him on the back.

“Well done!” said Harry fervently, slightly hoarse from all the shouting he’d had to do. “Really great, Ron, that last save – ”

“Thanks,” said Ron, grinning ear to ear. “Almost thought I’d missed it, did you see – ”

“Congratulations, Ron!” Hermione was running toward them, and when she reached them, she leaned up quickly, kissing Ron on the cheek. A second later, she seemed to realise what she had done and stepped back quickly, blushing and looking everywhere but at Ron’s face. Ron’s ears turned red as he stared, dumbstruck, at Hermione, then touched his cheek lightly where she had kissed him, beaming. Ginny, who had just walked up with the rest of the new team, caught Harry’s eye and they both looked away quickly, trying not to laugh.

After consulting everyone’s timetables, the first full practice was fixed up for the following week.

“You were all brilliant,” Harry congratulated them, and for a second he felt a true glow of pride as he looked around at them all.

Katie smiled at him fondly. “You too, Mr. Captain, nice job.”

The last stragglers were leaving the Quidditch pitch, and as Harry shook Ritchie Coote’s hand, he glanced away, inadvertently catching Romilda Vane’s eye. She gave him a little wave then turned back to her friends, their tinkling laughter fading as the little group strolled away.

Ron’s enthusiastic re-telling of his third save faded to a buzz in Harry’s ears as he stared after them. He dropped Ritchie’s hand, his skin crawling…his head throbbed like a heartbeat…his arms were beginning to itch again….

“Gonna go put these up, be right back….” Harry said mechanically, and kicked shut the lid of the crate containing the Quidditch balls, scooped it up, and headed toward the equipment shed. He quickly stowed the crate and glanced back at his friends. No one was watching, and he felt safe slipping away to the changing rooms.

Harry stopped just inside the door, pulling it closed and looking around. His eyes drank in the long benches, the pads and gloves hanging on the walls, the section leading off to the showers.

He loved this room.

He still remembered the first time he had sat in it before an actual Quidditch game, how nervous he had been…he saw himself quite clearly as he imagined it, his tiny little eleven-year-old self in those scarlet robes, trembling and anxious and so very, very excited….

Harry locked the door and went around to the showers. He wanted to rinse off, he felt sweaty and gross, but as soon as he turned on the tap, he remembered that Ron and Hermione would be waiting for him…they had planned to go down to Hagrid’s after tryouts…Harry reluctantly switched off the tap. He wandered over to the lockers, running his hand along the metal doors until coming to the one that had first been his, five years ago…it wasn’t his anymore…George had switched his and Harry’s as a joke in third year and they had never bothered to swap back…Harry turned around and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His wrists tingled more intensely and he scratched them one at a time, digging his nails in, prying out the itch.

He felt…odd.

Like how he imagined it might feel to stand at the edge of a cliff and look down, and feel no awe, or anticipation, or fear.

He was satisfied with his performance as Captain today, and truly happy for Ginny and for Ron for making the team, but it was like all that was buried underneath a massive, solid layer of…nothing.

The headache that had been developing all morning, since the moment he’d seen Romilda, gave a particularly intense throb…something was pulsing at the back of his mind like a tumor, begging to be examined –

_“…did you like your present?”_

– and Harry did not want to touch it, but it was like being in the room with a dead body, and you didn’t want to look at it, but it was so awful it drew your eyes against your will….

There was a knock at the door.

“Harry?”

It was Ginny.

He stared across the room. He wanted to call out to her, to go back out and join the others and talk about Quidditch like it was the only thing that mattered, but his mouth and body had disconnected from his brain, and Ginny’s voice felt very far away, and he stared.

“Are you in there?”

In his mind, he inched closer and closer to that ugly, red, pulsing mass, and he wanted very much for someone to yank him back, to stop him, _this did not belong in his head –_

DON’T!

He reached out, and touched it, and his mind burst open –

_– it felt like acid was leaking into his brain –_

**_“Are you lost, Harry?”_ **

His head was swirling with an artificial confusion, he felt dazed, he felt _wrong_ , and then there was darkness –

_“This is a broom cupboard….”_

– his body was frozen, he was helpless, he couldn’t do anything to protect himself, and there was –

**Sweet, sickly syrup sliding down his throat –**

He could taste it now, like he was being forced to drink it all over again, and he gagged, retching –

“Harry?” came that nice voice again, and it was louder, and not so calm, anymore.

_There was a boiling, raging heat inside him, nothing but heat, heat, heat, and he was burning up…she was beautiful, so beautiful you couldn’t see what was hiding underneath –_

**_“There’s a good boy.”_ **

He could feel her hand on his face, as surely as if she were sitting next to him, and he wanted to jerk away, but he was paralysed, he couldn’t move, and then her phantom lips were pressing against his, forcing them open, and her tongue was in his mouth –

_Stop her, or you won’t like what comes next – stop her, you sorry little –_

There were other voices outside the door now.

**Help me.**

_“I love you.”_

Those words were everything, they were the only important thing in the world, and she had taken his first ones, all for herself –

_There were hands all over him…._

He couldn’t breathe. His head fell back and hit the locker behind him with a metallic bang. He lifted his head and slammed it back again, and again –

“Get out of my head!” Harry gasped into the empty room.

_“You’re so gorgeous, Harry, hasn’t anyone ever told you?”_

**A hand slipping into his pants –**

Harry’s whole body jerked and he kicked out, his foot slamming into one of the wooden benches. It toppled over with an almighty crash –

The door was pounding now, pounding like the inside of Harry’s head.

“Harry Potter, open this door _right now,_ or I swear – ”

_She was pulling his clothes off, and then they were both naked, and she was on top of him –_

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

**DON’T. PLEASE.**

There was the shout of a spell, and the door burst open.

Someone shrieked.

“Oh my God! _Harry!_ ”

There was a clatter around him, and voices….

**_He was so cold._**

“Harry, stop!”

_Hermione…._

He sensed a body kneeling down beside him, and a hand closed over his burning wrist –

Harry startled at the contact, his eyes still shut tight, and he jerked away from it violently, his shoulder banging painfully into the lockers, and the hand released him. _He still couldn’t breathe…._

“Harry….” Her voice was trembling. “Harry…open your eyes….”

Harry forced himself to focus, his breath coming fast and sharp. He concentrated all his willpower on slowing his racing thoughts, shoving the images of _her face, her hair, her hands_ back through the door in his mind he never should have allowed himself to open in the first place – he pushed as hard as he possibly could – the door slammed shut…the too-real sensation of Romilda’s hands on his body began to fade, her voice draining out of his ears…when Hermione told him again to open his eyes, he obeyed on instinct.

Ron and Ginny were standing over him, their faces stricken and pale. Hermione knelt next to him, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes wide, her hands held up in front of her as if to show she meant no harm…one of her hands was covered in blood….

Harry stared at the bloody hand in consternation. _Why was she bleeding…_? His shoulders were hitching with the force of his breath, which was still coming too fast and shallow, his head was swimming….

“Ginny, quick, go get help, Hagrid’s closest – ” Hermione said frantically.

“No!” Harry croaked, hardly knowing what he was saying, and grabbed her wrist, his breath stuttering. “N-no…pl-ease….”

“Harry, you need help, you’re hurt!” Hermione said shrilly.

Harry blinked at her, confused, and his eyes fell to the hand he had wrapped around her arm. His wrist was torn open and raw, dripping blood down his arm, onto her skirt…Harry released her at once, mortified, and looked down at himself. His other hand was in a similar state, and there were drops of red spattered across his shirt….

“I don’t….” he panted. “W-what…what happened….?”

“You don’t remember?” Ron asked tensely, his eyes raking over Harry’s face. His freckles stood out starkly in his bloodless face.

Harry shook his head slowly, trying to think. He’d been scratching his wrists _(had to get the itch out)_ , he remembered that now…had he done this to himself? He hadn’t felt it….

Ginny knelt down on his other side. “You need to breathe, Harry,” she instructed, and her voice was steady despite the white-knuckled grip she had around her own knees. “In and out, come on.”

Harry tried to obey. He focused on the hair framing her face, admiring its colour, even in the dim lighting of the changing room…it reminded him of the Burrow…of sunny days spent playing Quidditch in the apple orchard, and Mrs. Weasley humming to herself while she cooked supper…Mr. Weasley reading in his worn, patched armchair…Harry’s heart rate began to slow, and he managed to take several deep breaths.

Ron had been hovering uncertainly, apparently debating whether to run and fetch help after all. But as Harry’s breathing slowed, he sank down onto his knees next to Hermione so they were all on the same level.

A heavy silence fell over the four of them as Harry calmed, and he looked down at his mangled hands, drawing them close against his body, and refused to look at anyone. Nobody said anything for what felt like an eternity; then Hermione reached out tentatively, giving Harry time to refuse her touch if he wanted to, before resting her hand gently on his arm, careful to avoid his injuries.

“What happened, Harry?” she prompted gently.

Harry thought about that for a minute, his brain feeling sluggish and slow. He shrugged hopelessly, still not looking at any of them. “I don’t know…I…I was thinking, and then I just…I dunno, blacked out, I guess….”

Exhaustion was setting in fast, dragging at Harry’s bones, and he thought he would like nothing more than to roll over right here and sleep for a week.

“You mean like…a vision?”

Harry wanted to say yes: here was a ready-made excuse for this… _episode._ An excuse that relieved him of all guilt for making them worry, for making them break down a door and find him collapsed on the floor of a locker room, covered in his own blood…but he could not bring himself to do it. And besides, if they were put under the impression that a vision from Voldemort had affected him this badly, they would want him to go straight to Dumbledore.

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” said Ginny softly.

A pause. “Where’re the others?” Harry asked, hoping the rest of the Gryffindor team weren’t standing outside, that they hadn’t heard….

“They went back up to the school, before I came looking for you,” Ginny told him, and Harry felt a bit better at that.

“What were you thinking about, that made you...?” asked Ron suddenly, as though he wasn’t sure whether he should, and Harry glanced up at him. His expression was clouded.

Harry shrugged again. “Something stupid. It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t, Harry decided, because was never going to go there again, was never again going to open the door in his mind that made him lose control like that, ever….

Ron’s eyes did not leave Harry’s face. “You hurt yourself.”

Harry bristled, and said a little defensively, “I didn’t do it on purpose, I told you, I blacked out.”

“Yes, well – ” Hermione said, her tone taking on some semblance of its usual briskness as she wiped the tears from her face. “We’ve got to get you up to the hospital wing – ”

“I don’t need the hospital wing,” said Harry, and was shouted down at once.

“Harry – ”

“Are you mad?”

“Yes, you do!” Hermione insisted heatedly, and they were all looking at him as if he’d grown another head. “You’re injured, Harry, and probably you need something for shock, too….”

“I’m not _in_ shock,” Harry growled, climbing to his feet, and the three of them scrambled to stand as well. “And it’s just a couple of scrapes, Hermione, I’m fine –”

Though this statement lost something of its merit as Harry wobbled uncertainly and Ron reached out to steady him. Harry did not fancy the idea of traipsing through the school covered in blood, he could imagine the rumours it was bound to start. He just wanted to lie down, and for Hermione, Ron, and Ginny to forget this had ever happened….

“Look,” he said tiredly, looking around at their determined faces. “I’ll let one of you lot have a go at healing me, if you want, but I’m not going to Madam Pomfrey, and I’m not changing my mind.”

“We can’t do that, Harry, we’re not qualified!” said Hermione. “What if something goes wrong? Besides, I don’t know those kind of healing spells….”

“I do,” Ginny said quietly, and they all looked at her.

“You do?” asked Ron, nonplussed.

“Mum taught me.”

“How come she never taught me?” Ron demanded, looking put out.

“I asked her,” said Ginny, giving him a look.

“Oh.”

“But I still reckon we should take you up to the school, whether you like it or not,” Ginny said, turning back to Harry. There was a hard, blazing look on her face, and for a brief second Harry’s resolve weakened and he almost considered going.

But he shook his head, looking into her eyes. He hesitated, and then held his ruined hands out to her. “Try? Please?”

Ginny held his gaze for another second, then sighed, pulling out her wand.

Hermione covered her eyes for a brief moment, shaking her head. “Unbelievable,” she whispered, and then fixed Harry with a glare. “Don’t you think you’ll be doing anything other than going straight to bed, when we get back up to the castle….”

“Fine by me,” Harry said wearily.

And then Ginny, very gently, took one of Harry’s hands in hers. Ginny’s skin was warm against his, and Harry’s belly performed a pleasant little flip, but that thing in the back of his mind into which he had vowed not to look loomed larger as she touched him, and he had to fight the urge to pull away.

“Tergeo,” she said quietly, siphoning off the dried blood, then tapped her wand gently to his wound and the ravaged skin started to knit itself back together as Ron and Hermione watched. Hermione was still looking very worried, but fascinated, too. Harry could practically see the gears of her mind turning, trying to work out the mechanics of the spell, and he would have smiled under different circumstances. Ginny repeated the process with Harry’s other hand, and then pointed her wand at Harry’s shirt, said “Scourgify!” and Harry’s clothes were suddenly blood-free.

Harry held his hands up, inspecting them. They were not quite good as new; the skin had closed up completely but was raised and slightly pink, like it was in the final stages of natural healing. But they were loads better than they had been, and Harry was more than a little impressed.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Ginny smiled at him, a little sadly, and said, “You’re welcome.”

Harry swallowed and looked away, crossing his arms over his chest and hiding his newly-healed hands from view. He nodded awkwardly toward the door and said, “Erm – guess we’d better be getting back then….”

“Harry – ” Hermione started significantly, but Harry walked quickly past her and out the door before she could say anything else.

 

* * *

 

_Plunk._

_Plunk._

_Plunk._

Harry pulled two more dead flobberworms apart and tossed each one into a bowl. He glanced at the clock behind the desk where Snape sat, bent over a stack of paperwork, and groaned inwardly.

He’d only been at it for half an hour. He had another whole hour left….

Snape looked up ominously at the pause in _plunking_ sounds, and Harry grudgingly dug his hands back into the giant barrel of flobberworms he was sorting into rotten and not-rotten for use as Potions ingredients.

Hermione and Ron had been furious at him when he had announced he was leaving the common room to serve his detention with Snape as planned. Ginny too. And she had looked so much like Mrs. Weasley as she’d threatened to hex Harry back into bed that even Ron had recoiled under the strength of her glare.

The three of them had tried to convince Harry to tell McGonagall or Dumbledore what had happened so he wouldn’t have to attend this detention, but honestly, Harry thought grimly, as he dumped the bowl of rotten flobberworms into the rubbish bin and continued sorting, it was almost a relief to be down here up to his elbows in slimy dead worms with only Snape for company instead of up in the Tower with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

Harry had gone straight to bed like he’d promised after the…fiasco…that morning. But when he had tried to lie down, he found he was too jittery to rest and made his way back down to the common room to ask Ron if he was up for a game of chess. Ron had kept shooting Harry highly anxious looks, however, and after their match Harry had gone right back up to bed. And on it had gone all afternoon, back and forth, bed, common room, bed, until Harry thought he’d go stark raving mad if he had to spend another second in Gryffindor Tower. So at half past eight he had been more than glad to depart for the dungeons, if only to get away from the oppressive pall of his friends’ worry and his own jumpy, restless nerves.

Harry peered up at Snape again through his fringe. Snape didn’t teach in the dungeons anymore, of course, his office was up on the second floor now, but perhaps Snape missed his old stomping grounds, and that was why he had insisted on dragging Harry all the way down here to stock Potions ingredients, just like old times.

It was odd, Harry thought, that he felt no misgivings about spending time alone with Snape, when the idea of being alone with Slughorn had nearly sent him into a panic….

Then again, Harry considered, throwing away another flobberworm. Perhaps it was not so odd after all.

Snape was safe.

Well, maybe ‘safe’ wasn’t exactly the right word. Harry knew Snape wouldn’t mind hurting him, given half the chance. He could still vividly recall the feeling of Snape’s fingers digging into his arm the day Harry had accidentally viewed his memory in the Pensieve, holding him in a vicious, biting grip, shaking him, throwing him to floor….

Harry’d had those bruises for two weeks, though he’d never shown anybody, not even Ron and Hermione.

Old habits, he supposed.

But that was just it, wasn’t it? Snape was predictable. He hated Harry. Despised him. And Harry returned the feeling with interest. Harry knew Snape was capable of hurting him, that Snape even took great pleasure in his misery and pain. But Snape did not like to touch Harry if he could help it. The ways he could choose to hurt Harry were expected, and obvious, and to the point.

Snape was like the Dursleys.

And Harry gleaned a small measure of bitter comfort from the unfailing certainty of that fact.

Because he had started to think, somewhere behind that door in his mind that he couldn’t ever touch again, that maybe it was the less obvious ways of getting hurt that could really mess a person up. The ways you didn’t see coming. The ones that slithered in, disguised as something else, something nicer…something prettier….

Maybe, he thought, looking down at the damaged skin of his hands, the worst bruises did not come from fists, but flowers.


	5. Way Down We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you noticed, this chapter came a smidge later than usual, and I should probably take this time to give everyone a heads up that future updates might not be strictly weekly. **I will still be posting very regularly.** Just perhaps not every Saturday like clockwork, as we're getting into summer which is a busy time of year for me, and I might have to take an extra few days here and there.
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to everyone reading this story, and for the kudos and comments, you guys are the best! <3

The early morning sky was painted a pure light pink. The distant shadows of the mountains surrounding the school marked a jagged edge against the horizon, where the tiniest hint of gold was starting to emerge, and the last of the night’s stars were winking out as the darkness faded: the most skilled artist could not have created a better view than this one.

And Harry would have liked to stop to appreciate it, only he had another lap to finish.

His thighs burned, and the growing stitch in his side flared painfully as he rounded the outside wall of the Quidditch stadium, but still he pushed himself harder, his feet beating even faster against the ground, his breath sharp and searing in his chest…he was almost there….

Harry came around another corner and saw, to his relief, the main entrance to the stadium looming ahead. He put on an extra burst of speed, ignoring the white spots bursting in his vision, and concentrated his entire being on making it to the posts that marked the entryway.

He staggered to a stop as he reached them, placing his hand against the wall, supporting himself as he bent over double, gasping for breath, fighting not to pass out.

After a minute or two, he straightened back up cautiously. His head was pounding and the acid in his empty belly churned unpleasantly, but his vision had cleared and he didn’t feel quite so dizzy. Sucking in great gulps of air, Harry pressed a hand gingerly to his stomach and limped his way inside the stadium, all the way over to the Gryffindor changing rooms where he’d stashed his bag earlier. Kicking the door shut behind him as he entered the room, Harry stumbled straight over to one of the benches and collapsed onto it gratefully, putting his head between his knees and breathing in deeply through his nose. As the cramping in his stomach subsided, Harry sat up a bit straighter, resting his head in his hands.

These morning runs had turned out to be a good idea in a lot of ways, but hell if they didn’t make him feel like he might drop dead.

Harry sighed and scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, shivering slightly as the sweat covering his body cooled in the chilly morning air. Knowing he didn’t have much time before he had to be back up at the school, he reluctantly hauled himself to his feet and shuffled over to the showers, stripping off as he went.

He really hadn’t meant to develop a whole…exercise regimen, he reflected as he stepped under the hot spray, but he was sort of glad he had. Probably he should have been doing this all along, anyway. Seekers were supposed to be light and speedy, after all.

It had started, rather accidentally, when Harry had woken up exceptionally early one morning and left the dormitory on a whim, sneaking out of the school for a walk around the grounds, thinking vaguely of visiting Buckbeak at Hagrid’s. He’d changed course halfway down, however, and had found himself walking, and then running, around the pitch, his feet flying over the ground, pushing himself as fast as he could go….

And he had found that it helped.

Helped to bleed some of the restless anxiety from his body, some of the racing thoughts from his mind…had made him feel like he was getting rid of everything he had eaten the day before, wiping the slate clean.

Because food had begun to sit even more heavily in Harry’s stomach. And he did not like the way it felt. Like it was dragging him down, making his body seem sluggish and slow. He felt most like himself, these days, when his belly was empty and he could _think_ – it was like the less he managed to eat, the more that weird parasite inside him starved, and the itch in his arms faded a little, and he felt like maybe he might be okay.

Ron hadn’t been happy, that first morning, to wake up and find Harry gone. Evidently, he’d gone off straight into a panic and enlisted Neville and Hermione’s help to try and find him, and when Harry had returned, safe and sound, to the common room to change before class, Ron had promptly called Harry a git, and both he and Hermione had been on edge the rest of the morning.

So Harry left notes, now, when he went out in the mornings.

Ron and Hermione had been almost constantly on edge, really. Ever since The Incident, as Harry now referred to it in his mind.

_Panicked and blind and bleeding all over himself in a locker room –_

Harry often caught them staring at him when they all sat together doing homework, or whispering with their heads bent close when he walked into a room, before breaking apart suddenly, pretending that they hadn’t been. Harry knew they were worried. Hermione, who was taking more classes than either him or Ron, was becoming increasingly busy and had backed off a little of nagging Harry about what he was eating, if only due to a lack of time in which to do it. Ron, however, had taken up the mantle for her, spooning extra food silently onto Harry’s plate and giving him pointed looks.

But he wasn’t sure how to explain to them that they didn’t need to be worried.

Harry had tried to think through it all rationally, step by step, what his problem was, after his friends had found him such a mess that day, and he thought he had figured it out.

He had slept with someone. He had slept with someone, and he had reacted badly. Which Harry supposed was only natural. It hadn’t been how he had pictured his first time going, and it hadn’t been with someone he liked all that much, so it was really no surprise that he hadn’t been fond of the experience. He had decided that that wasn’t such a big deal, really, and he felt a lot better about the whole thing, only his body was turning out to be a bit slow on the uptake – he kept feeling odd bouts of nausea, that weird, constant chill, and an unnerving thrum of anxiety in his belly, in his chest, in his brain.

This was all helping, Harry thought, now scrubbing himself down with soap in the changing room shower…his new running routine, keeping his stomach empty and clean and void of anything for the nerves to toss around…he was fixing his body, and he was feeling better than ever. He still wasn’t doing very well in classes, and the _Daily Prophet_ continued to bring nothing but bad news, but he hadn’t thought as much about Romilda Vane, or The Incident, for over a week now, and things felt like they were getting back to some semblance of normal.

Well, Harry supposed, running his hands through his hair, working out the soap bubbles, he hadn’t thought about Romilda much when he was _awake._

Asleep was another thing entirely.

He was still sleeping poorly, and he’d started having weird dreams. _More_ weird dreams. Besides the one he kept having about the red light.

Dreams in which Ginny was holding his hands gently, healing them, repairing the damage he had accidentally done to himself…but then her tender smile turned feral, and hungry, and her face melted into Romilda’s sharp features, the fingers encircling his wrists turning into ropes that bit into his skin, burning him and holding him down while she ran her hands over every inch of him –

Harry had awoken more than once, mortified, to find that certain parts of his body had responded in his sleep. Even worse was the very first time it had happened, and he had rolled over and attempted to go back to sleep, relieved that it had only been a dream, and discovered that his shorts were already wet and sticky.

That had been the morning Harry had first left the castle looking for a distraction, wishing to be anywhere but his bed, and found himself on the Quidditch pitch.

Turning the water off, Harry stepped out of the shower and quickly dried off. He padded over to his locker, retrieving his bag and pulling out the change of clothes he’d grabbed before he left. It was easier that way, he’d found, to bring his clothes and school things with him, so he didn’t have to go all the way back up to Gryffindor before class.

Harry pulled on a pair of jeans and fastened his belt, slightly surprised when it slipped past its usual notch and settled on the next one in, but he shrugged it off – that happened to him, sometimes. He dragged his t-shirt over his head and put on a fresh set of robes before going about gathering the clothes he’d shucked on his way to the showers, casting a Freshening Charm on them so they wouldn’t stink to high heaven all day, and shoving them into his school bag.

Harry left the changing rooms, pausing briefly to make sure everything was exactly as he had left it, and skirted around the wall of the arena to the main entrance.

The sky was decidedly blue by now, and Harry hoped fervently that the students and staff were firmly ensconced at breakfast; he didn’t fancy trying to sneak back in through the front doors with everyone milling about in the entrance hall. Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, dragging his feet and kicking at the occasional rock on the abandoned dirt path.

He had a free period this morning before Potions, but he knew if he wasn’t back soon, Ron might organise another search party.

Harry amused himself for a moment with an image of Ron holding a clipboard and megaphone, directing groups of students and house elves into every corner of the school grounds, before he sighed again, hitching his bag more securely over his shoulder, and walked a bit faster.

 

* * *

 

“Hey.”

Harry froze a single step inside the entrance hall, turning his head to see Ron leaning casually against the wall behind the front doors, arms folded over his chest, holding a couple of crumpets in a napkin.

Harry’s stomach dropped. Though, of course, he had no reason to feel guilty. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong – at least, not according to anyone but a teacher, being out-of-bounds before dawn….

“Hey,” he answered back easily as Ron pushed away from the wall.

“Got you these,” said Ron lightly, holding the crumpets out to Harry, and the two of them set off across the entrance hall together. “Didn’t want you to miss breakfast again.”

Harry took them. “Thanks,” he said, his heart sinking slightly.

He _had_ planned on skipping breakfast, and he had not counted on Ron going to the trouble of bringing him any. His stomach rumbled quietly as he stared down at the cakes, even as he wracked his brains for a way to dispose of them without Ron noticing. Part of him wanted to wolf them down immediately, but he’d done so well this morning already, he felt clear and alert from his run, and if he ate them, he’d feel so awful, and heavy, and it would ruin everything….

Ron yawned, shaking his head. “I’ve still got no idea why you’re waking up so early, couldn’t get you out of bed before half past nine all summer and now you’re up at dawn running your arse off,” he laughed, but Harry could tell Ron was watching him closely.

Harry shrugged and tore off a small chunk of bread, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly under Ron’s gaze. “Got to train, haven’t I? ‘M Captain now.”

“‘Training’,” Ron scoffed. “Come on, you’re the best Seeker Hogwarts has ever had,” he said bracingly.

Harry hummed noncommittally, fiddling with his napkin.

“But if it’s so important to you to be fit for the team,” Ron continued with a thoughtful look on his freckled face, “maybe I should come with you, and we could both do it.”

Harry laughed smoothly, ignoring the small burst of alarm inside him at the suggestion. “Right, you managing to get up at five every morning, that’s likely….”

“True,” Ron conceded, nodding wisely. “I’d last about a day, if I’m being honest.”

They grinned at each other and stopped outside a bathroom so Ron could duck in. Ron glanced quickly back at Harry, and the crumpets in his hand, before going in, and Harry, pretending he hadn’t noticed, tore a huge piece from one of them and lifted it to his mouth as Ron disappeared through the door.

As soon as he was sure Ron was gone, Harry tossed the bit of bread to the floor, along with the cake he hadn’t yet touched, and quickly Vanished them with a wave of his wand. He kept the crumb-covered napkin, waited for Ron to come out of the bathroom, and then when he knew Ron was looking, crumpled it up as though he’d just finished and stuffed it into his pocket.

A satisfied look stole over Ron’s face, and he seemed to relax as he and Harry made their way up the next flight of stairs, chatting enthusiastically about the strategy for their first Quidditch match of the season.

 

* * *

 

Hermione joined Harry and Ron in the queue outside the Potions classroom an hour later, attempting to cram three giant books into her already straining bag, looking harried and out of breath.

“Arithmancy went over,” she explained, swiping several strands of frizzy hair out of her face. “Professor Vector lost track of time, I had to run all the way down here, I’m sure I’ve only just made it….”

Sure enough, Professor Slughorn threw open the door to the classroom not a second later, his great belly jiggling as he gestured them all inside.

The group entered and Harry, Ron, and Hermione took a table near the front. Harry began pulling out his book and supplies as Ernie Macmillan, who usually shared a table with them now, settled on the other side of Hermione. Harry glanced over at the Slytherin table, eyeing Malfoy, who sat speaking to Nott and Zabini in a low voice. Harry strained his ears, hoping to catch some of what they were saying, but Slughorn clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention and Malfoy stopped talking at once.

“Alright, alright, alright, boys and girls,” Slughorn boomed genially from the front of the room, rubbing his hands together. “Look sharp, we’ve quite an interesting lesson in front of us today – ”

Harry paused, his hand stilling inside his bag in its search for a usable quill, and sniffed the air cautiously.

The sixth year class had been working their way through brewing the selection of potions Slughorn had showcased in their very first lesson. So far, they had covered Felix Felicis and Veritaserum, and if the smell of treacle tart and broomsticks and that oddly familiar, flowery scent wafting towards Harry was anything to go by, today they were going to be brewing –

“Amortentia!” Professor Slughorn announced merrily to the class, moving aside so they could see the cauldron bubbling away happily behind him.

One of the Ravenclaws gasped, and Hermione let out an “Ooh!” of excitement; Slughorn twirled his moustache and bounced on the balls of his feet, quite plainly pleased at the class’s open looks of thrilled anticipation. But Harry felt like a rock had slid down his throat into his stomach as he stared at the wisps of vapor spiraling lazily up from the cauldron.

Sometimes, Harry felt sure his life was just one big cosmic joke.

As much as he had made his peace with the way Romilda Vane had chosen to go about…spending time with him, Harry didn’t quite like the idea of passing the entire class period going over the specifics of love potions and how they worked. He was not entirely sure, truthfully, that he wanted to know. And what was Slughorn thinking, anyway, teaching them to brew Amortentia? Didn’t he realise it would be easy, so incredibly easy, for anyone to just bottle up a bit of their potion at the end of class, and keep it for their own, and use it on someone…?

Harry slowly lowered his bag back to the ground, debating quickly. He could feel sweat gathering at his temples…he did not want to be here, he did not want to do this –

“Harry, m’boy?” questioned Slughorn, noticing Harry’s raised hand.

“Sorry, Professor, I was wondering – could I go to the bathroom, sir?”

Ron and Hermione’s faces turned towards him, but Harry did not look at them as he waited for his professor’s answer, fighting the impulse to scratch at his arms.

“Of course, my dear boy, if you need to,” said Slughorn, an expression of bemusement and slight concern visible above his enormous silvery moustache. “But hurry back, you really can’t afford to be missing any instruction time at this point, I’m afraid….”

Malfoy sniggered into his hand, but Harry ignored both him and Ron, who was trying to get Harry’s attention as he stood up.

Harry made straight for the door, leaving his things, and stopped, breathing deeply, once he’d made it out into the empty corridor.

He was not sure where to go. He already knew he wouldn’t be going back to Potions. But he didn’t really need the bathroom, either. He turned and walked slowly up the corridor, thinking possibly of heading back to Gryffindor for a quick kip.

Harry managed to make it all the way up to the third floor without running into anyone; most of the staff and students were in class. He was just thinking, as he glanced over his shoulder, that probably he should don his Invisibility Cloak anyway, when he walked straight into the unyielding form of Severus Snape.

Caught by surprise, Harry lost his balance and toppled over, landing hard on his backside.

Snape narrowed his eyes and stared down at Harry coldly. Pinned momentarily to the floor by shock, Harry watched as Snape stuck his head inside the Defence classroom’s open door, barked at his third year students to quiet down and stay in their seats, and then slammed it shut, turning back to glare at Harry.

Harry scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off, and opened his mouth, not quite certain what he was going to say, but Snape beat him to it.

“Well, well, well, what a fortunate day for me,” Snape said in a low, dangerous voice. “Running into the _Chosen One_ …tell me, Potter, what impressively important reason could you possibly have for not being in class?”

Harry’s mind raced, searching for an excuse that did not sound unbearably flimsy. “I was….”

“Yes?” Snape prompted, moving a step closer to Harry.

Harry stood his ground, holding Snape’s gaze.

“On a mission?” Snape suggested, his black eyes boring into Harry’s. His voice lowered even further until it was just a whisper. “Off to save someone who doesn’t need saving in the first place, perhaps?”

Snape smirked, and an ugly, vicious rage tore at Harry’s insides. His hands balled into tight fists at his sides as he fought to keep his expression neutral. He desperately resisted the image threatening to break across his mind, an image of a lifeless body, arching gracefully behind a veil...hate filled Harry so strongly he thought it must be radiating off of him, and he wanted nothing more than to lunge at the man before him, to hit him, to hurt him, to wrap his hands around his filthy neck and _break_ him….

“No,” Harry said quietly, and he poured all of his will into keeping his voice even. “I was going to the library, actually. _Sir._ ”

Snape’s face was closed, inscrutable, and then, finally, he said softly: “Detention, Mr. Potter. Thursday, my office. Get back to class. _Now._ ”

Harry glared at him for another second, then wheeled around and stalked away without another word. He knew Snape was watching, and he waited until he had rounded the corner, and heard the door close behind Snape, before he pulled his Cloak from his pocket and threw it over himself. He had mentioned the library on a whim, but it seemed as good a place as any, and Harry was not much in the mood for a nap anymore, he thought sourly.

He had not yet made it to the stairs leading back down to the second floor, however, when he heard somebody else coming, and he crouched down next to a suit of armour. A moment later, Hagrid stumped around the corner in his giant moleskin overcoat. Harry silently watched him pass, wondering what he was doing up at the castle this time of day, and whether he might be going to see Dumbledore…Harry was struck by the sudden desire to call out to him, to let Hagrid know he was here, just to talk to him, but Harry knew that Hagrid, like Snape, would want to know why Harry was wandering about the halls, and the urge passed…Harry’s eyes followed Hagrid until he was out of sight, and then he straightened up, adjusting the Cloak, and continued on his way.

 

* * *

 

The library was empty, save for Madam Pince and two seventh year Hufflepuffs, and Harry made his way directly to the back, putting himself as far away from them as possible. He meandered aimlessly up and down the aisles, stopping every once and a while to peruse an interesting title, before coming to stop, realising he had wandered into the Defence section.

Thinking he might as well make himself useful even if he was skiving off, Harry scanned the shelves, looking for anything that might be generally helpful. His eyes fell upon a familiar spine, and he took the book down, inspecting it. With a pang, he recognised it as a copy of the third volume from the set of Defence books that were sitting upstairs in his trunk. The set of books Sirius and Lupin had got him last year for Christmas. Sinking down to sit cross-legged on the floor, still under his Cloak, Harry opened the book and flipped through it, admiring how the moving illustrations still hadn’t lost a bit of their brilliance, even after having studied them for hours….

The bell rang a while later, signaling the next class, and Harry saw the pair of Hufflepuffs leave, but he stayed where he was, pulling down more books to examine.

 

* * *

 

Lunch came and went, and Harry endured the rumbling emptiness in his belly with an odd sort of vindictive pleasure. But the next section of the day was a free period for the sixth year Gryffindors; he knew Ron and Hermione would be heading back to the common room and if Harry wasn’t there, they would come looking for him.

Grudgingly, Harry got to his feet, replaced his books, and headed out of the library at last, careful not to make any sound as he passed Madam Pince’s desk.

 

* * *

  

The common room wasn’t crowded; only half a dozen older students occupied the armchairs around the fireplace, and Harry saw at a glance that Ron and Hermione were not among them. Remembering with a small jolt that he had left his bag in the dungeons and therefore could not start on any of his homework, Harry settled at a table in the far corner of the room to wait for his friends, hoping that they had thought to grab his things before they’d left Potions.

He did not have long to wait; the portrait hole opened a minute later, and he looked up to find Ron and Hermione climbing through. He was relieved to see that Ron had Harry’s bag slung over one shoulder. Hermione glanced around the room, and when her eyes fell on Harry, she tugged at Ron’s sleeve, nodding in Harry’s direction, and a look fell across her face that Harry did not much like.

He knew she would be disapproving, exasperated, even angry, that he had skipped class. But her expression, as she and Ron made a beeline for him, was something more along the lines of determined.

Upset, but determined.

“Er,” Harry said, as they reached him. “So, what did I miss in Potions – ?”

“We need to talk.” Hermione stood with her arms crossed over her chest, staring resolutely down at Harry.

“About what?” asked Harry cautiously, glancing from her to Ron. Ron simply held Harry’s bag out to him silently and nodded towards the stairs to the dormitories, his expression serious. Harry took the bag from him and rose to his feet. He gave the two of them a pair of suspicious looks but followed them nevertheless upstairs to the boys’ dormitory.

Hermione held the door open pointedly, motioning Harry inside, and when she’d closed it behind the three of them, she turned immediately to Harry, hands planted firmly on her hips.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked baldly.

Harry glanced between them again, at their identical sober expressions, and had to fight the bizarre urge to smile as a great swoop of nerves swept through him.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what we’re talking about,” Ron said sharply.

Harry licked his lips uneasily, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Look, if this is about what I did in the changing rooms, that was nothing, I shouldn’t have – ”

“It wasn’t nothing, Harry,” said Hermione quietly. “It was awful, I’ve never seen you like that….” Her hands came off her hips, and she started wringing them together as she looked at him. “I’m starting to think we made a mistake, not taking you to Madam Pomfrey, you still haven’t told us what happened, what made you – ”

“I’m sorry I worried you, alright? I haven’t told you because there isn’t anything to tell, I’m _fine,_ honestly,” said Harry fervently, and Ron snorted. Harry looked at him; he had folded his arms over his chest and the look on his face was one of plain disbelief.

“I don’t think you are, Harry, and it’s not just what happened after tryouts,” Hermione continued, and her voice had taken on a slightly shrill quality. “You aren’t eating. You’re skipping classes, I know you’re not sleeping properly….” she said, glancing at Ron.

Harry sent him a glare, and Ron had the decency to look guilty, but his eyes did not leave Harry’s face.

The room felt very hot all of a sudden, and Harry’s nails went automatically to his wrist, scratching absently. “I’m sleeping just fine,” he said, irritated, choosing deliberately not to address the first part of her accusation. They would not understand if he tried to explain to them why he didn't like to let himself eat.

Hermione moved forward, taking his wrists gently in her hands and pulling them away from each other so he couldn’t scratch. His skin crawled where she held him, and he tugged his hands out of her grasp, sinking down onto his bed, unable to meet their eyes. None of them moved, and for a moment there was a strained silence, until Ron unfolded his arms and sat down on the edge of his own bed. Hermione followed suit, perching tentatively next to Harry.

They both stared at him, waiting, but Harry could not bring himself to be the one to break the silence. He felt beleaguered and trapped, and he wished the floor would just open up and swallow him whole. His skin seemed to blister under their combined gaze.

Finally, Hermione said:

“Please talk to us, Harry.”

Her voice was trembling slightly.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Hermione,” Harry said flatly, still staring at the floor.

Hermione made a noise as if to protest, but Ron cut her off.

“You know, the last time you didn’t tell us something, Umbridge was making you carve yourself up every night.” His tone was hard, and Harry raised his eyes to meet Ron’s. “I only found out because I saw your hand. And even then you wouldn’t let us tell McGonagall or Dumbledore, you wouldn’t let us really help….”

Hermione carefully reached out to touch Harry’s hand again, the one Umbridge had forced him to slice up. The damage from Harry’s scratches had mostly healed, and the words ‘I must not tell lies’ were faintly visible once more; Hermione ran her thumb over them lightly, but Harry stiffened and pulled away.

It wasn’t like they all hadn’t kept secrets from each other.

“You didn’t tell me you were trying out for Keeper last year,” Harry accused Ron, firing up. He turned to face Hermione. “And you didn’t tell Ron and me about that Time-Turner third year!”

“Because I wasn’t allowed!” Hermione said indignantly. “And that wasn’t the same! This isn’t about taking a few extra classes and trying out for Quidditch – you don’t seem well, Harry, and, to be honest, I’m getting a little scared….”

“Well, you don’t have to be – ”

“Is this about Sirius?” Hermione asked abruptly, and Harry felt his intestines turn to ice. “Harry, I wish you would just talk to us, I know it’s hard, but you haven’t even said his name _once_ since he died, and I think you really need – ”

“ _Don’t,_ Hermione,” Harry said dangerously.

He did not like people talking about Sirius.

“Mate – ” Ron started, but Harry stood up suddenly and strode around to his trunk.

“Listen, I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” said Harry tightly, tossing open the lid of his trunk, blocking Ron and Hermione from view as he bent over it, busying himself with searching for the pair of gloves he needed for Herbology next period. “But you don’t know what you’re talking about, either of you, I’m fine. I’m just tired, that’s all….” He shifted his things about in his trunk unnecessarily, waiting for them to take the hint and leave.

There was a long silence, the only sounds the rattle of Harry’s belongings and the thump of books against books as he switched out his texts from his bag.

After a minute, Harry heard Hermione let out a low sigh, and she got up from his bed. He did not look up at her, but as she passed him, she brushed her fingers lightly against his shoulder. He heard the door open, and then she was gone.

Ron was still in the room, but Harry had stretched the excuse of readying his bag as far as it could go, and he unwillingly closed the lid of his trunk and stood up. Ron stood, too, but instead of leaving, he looked at Harry.

“You sure there’s nothing, mate?”

There was something imploring and slightly challenging about the way he searched Harry’s face, and Harry found it was one of those times that he became aware of exactly how tall Ron was.

“Yeah, of course,” said Harry. “I’m fine, Ron, really….”

The stared at each other for a long moment, and Harry resisted the urge to look away.

“Okay,” said Ron finally. But as Ron turned to go, Harry was sure he saw a look of disappointment flash across his face.

Once Ron had left, Harry sank back down onto his bed, staring out of the sunlit window, a strange hollow emptiness in his chest.

He noticed his hands were shaking slightly, and he clenched them together.

Harry glanced at the door, where Ron and Hermione had just disappeared, and took a deep breath.

He would have to be more careful from now on.

 

* * *

 

Hermione scratched the final translation for her Ancient Runes essay at the bottom of her third sheet of parchment, just barely squeezing it into the last little line, before rolling it up neatly and tucking it safely away inside her bag. She had always found it was better to go back and edit later, after she’d had a chance to clear her mind a bit.

Instead, she pulled out her copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6,_ and glanced up at Harry for the hundredth time.

He had acted overly cheerful all afternoon, ever since she and Ron had taken him aside, smiling more than usual, and speculating with Ron about the Chudley Cannons’ chances for the season as if their talk with him hadn’t happened. Whether it was to try to convince them or himself that nothing was wrong, Hermione did not know.

But something _was_ wrong, and of that she was certain.

Unaware that he was being watched, the false cheer had disappeared from Harry’s face, and he looked…completely exhausted. Like he did so much of the time these days. There were dark smudges under his eyes that seemed to grow worse every day. The crease between his eyebrows never seemed to disappear, as if every thought he had was troubled. His wrists were starting to look blistered again, like he'd been picking at them....

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he had lost weight, and his eating habits were starting to worry her. He had skipped more than a few meals recently, and her efforts (and Ron’s) to ensure he made up for it did not seem to be helping much. She knew Harry sometimes went through odd periods where he became forgetful and had to be reminded to eat, but he had never before seemed quite so…disinterested…in food.

She often caught him, now, staring blankly at nothing, lost inside his head. Harry had started off so well in lessons this year, but he didn’t seem to be putting much effort into his schoolwork anymore…she and Ron had waited all Potions class that day, expecting him to return any minute, but he never had. He had looked so pale before he’d left…and he hadn’t shown up to their next class, or lunch….

He had been acting oddly, too. Obsessing over Malfoy’s whereabouts half the time, waking up at the crack of dawn to sneak down to the Quidditch pitch, seeming even more uncomfortable than usual with people touching him.

It was strange, and Hermione didn’t know what to make of it all.

As she watched him, Harry leaned over his homework, squinting at a caption in his textbook, and his glasses slipped down his nose a bit. Harry absently pushed them back up with the tips of his first two fingers, and despite her distressing thoughts, a fond smile touched her lips – the gesture was so very _Harry_. He straightened his glasses the exact same way every time, ever since she’d known him, and she’d always found it incredibly endearing.

Hermione wondered wryly what Ron would think if he heard her say that, and she looked over at him. He was bent over his own books, but he, too, was staring surreptitiously up at Harry. She briefly caught his eye and they both shared a knowing glance before looking back to Harry, who was now twirling his quill absent-mindedly in his fingers and gazing impassively into the fire.

Hermione knew Ron was going spare.

Harry’s episode after the Quidditch tryouts had rattled him, had rattled them both, but Harry was refusing to let them in on what was going on, and neither one of them knew what to do about it.

She suspected at least part of it was to do with Sirius, but she was not convinced that was all of it. Harry’s behaviour seemed to have changed rather suddenly after his first lesson with Dumbledore. He still hadn’t told either her or Ron much about what the headmaster had shown him about Voldemort, and she wondered if Ron was perhaps correct in thinking something had frightened Harry that night.

Hermione looked down at her own quill, thinking about that unbearable, dreadful prophecy, and about Sirius….

An idea struck her, as thoughts of Harry’s godfather turned over in her mind – she knew Lupin and Harry had been exchanging letters, and she suddenly wondered if maybe she shouldn’t write one herself.

If Harry wasn’t going to talk to them, maybe he would talk to Remus Lupin.

As far as she was aware, Lupin did not know about the prophecy and how it applied to Harry, but he was in the Order, and had known Sirius well, and she knew he cared about Harry very deeply.

And Harry respected him to boot, which made him quite the perfect candidate for the job.

Sitting up a bit straighter, Hermione glanced at Harry one more time, pulled out another piece of parchment, and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Hermione POV! :) This fic is going to be mostly from Harry's perspective, but a few other characters will be sharing their view of things as the story progresses.


	6. Lightning in a Bottle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, I've gone and done what I didn't want to do at all - promised updates and then didn't deliver. Life got in the way, said every fanfic author ever, and I tried to write (I PROMISE LOL) but I just didn't have the energy to pull it off. Things are looking a bit brighter, though, and I hope you all are having lovely summers (or whatever season it is where you are) <3 I suppose to take the pressure off I shouldn't promise weekly updates, but know that I am constantly thinking about this fic and working on it whenever I can!
> 
> And now finally, hopefully, enjoy. :)

_Dear Harry,_

_Is it much colder there yet? It’s freezing here, I’m afraid, and I must confess I’m eager to be home._

_How are you? I hope your classes are going well. It’s difficult to believe it has already been nearly a month that you’ve been back, and regrettably two since we last met – forgive me, I had hoped to see more of you over the summer holidays. Molly and Arthur have invited me to spend this coming Christmas at the Burrow, and I look forward to seeing you again._

_If there’s anything, at all, you wish to talk about, I want you to know you can contact me at any time. Please take care of yourself._

_– Remus_

Harry stared at the letter, an odd squirming sensation in his gut. He sank down to perch on the edge of the windowsill, elbows resting on his knees, and quickly scanned the page again. He wondered where Lupin could possibly be, to complain about it being colder than Britain.

Hedwig, who had set to preening herself as soon as Harry had let her in the window and relieved her of the little roll of parchment, edged up to Harry’s side and nuzzled her snowy head against his ribcage. Harry’s hand moved without thought to pet her reassuringly as he took in Lupin’s neatly-written words again.

‘ _I want you to know you can contact me at any time….’_

Harry’s stomach tightened again with a pleasant sort of thrill.

A bit of the warm glow drained away, however, as he ran his fingers slowly down Hedwig’s back…Lupin’s sudden concern that Harry might have something to talk about seemed a little suspicious the more he thought about it. He wondered, with an alarm he couldn’t explain, if Ron or Hermione had maybe said something to him. Harry’s stomach dropped like a stone – he wondered if they had told him about what Harry had done in the changing rooms. Unless he was talking about Sirius....

A trunk thudded closed across the room and Harry looked up as Neville made his way towards the door. Neville smiled at Harry as he passed, then did a brief double-take and paused, his forehead scrunching as he looked at Harry.

“Alright?” Neville asked.

Harry smiled back at him, hoping it didn’t look too forced. “Yeah. Just a letter from Lupin,” he said, waving the piece of parchment slightly in explanation.

Neville’s eyes brightened. “Oh, how is he? I haven’t seen him since – ” He broke off awkwardly, his eyes darting to the ground then back up at Harry.

 _‘Since the Ministry’_ hung heavily in the air between them – Neville hadn’t seen Professor Lupin since the Ministry, when the man had practically had to wrestle Harry to the ground to keep him from following Sirius through the Veil.

Harry cleared his throat. “He’s fine. Actually, he told me to tell you ‘hello’ from him,” he said, only just remembering one of Lupin’s earlier letters and feeling a bit guilty for forgetting.

Neville beamed, and Harry thought he looked more than a little relieved at the change of subject. “Thanks! Tell him I said ‘hello’ back….”

“I will,” said Harry, giving him another perfunctory smile and dropping his gaze back to the letter in his hand. After a second or two, he could tell Neville hadn’t moved and he glanced up again. Neville shook himself slightly, as if only just realising he’d been staring. He grinned at Harry with a little more sympathy than Harry thought was strictly necessary, and quietly left the room.

Harry let his head fall back against the window with a dull thunk. Hedwig fluttered onto his lap and turned her head to the side, fixing him with one beady eye.

“Oh don’t _you_ start, too,” Harry grumbled, chucking her gently under her beak.

Hedwig nipped at Harry’s finger fondly before drawing her wings a little tighter against her body and turning her head away pointedly. Harry sighed and stowed Lupin’s letter in his pocket, making a mental note to ask Hermione about it later.

 

* * *

 

Not quite sure how to answer Lupin for the moment, Harry sent Hedwig off the owlery and followed Neville down into the common room. He fell into an empty sofa as far away from the other students as possible – even after only a few seconds, all the noise started to set his teeth on edge. He briefly considered heading back upstairs to attempt some of his homework assignments, before conceding that he didn’t really have the energy.

Hermione and Ron were off performing prefect duties (though truthfully Harry hadn’t been listening too closely when Hermione had told him where they were going) and a listless boredom had begun to set in. Harry stared across the room, unseeing, and let his thoughts wander…he wondered vaguely what Malfoy was up to at that very moment. If, being a prefect, he had been summoned to duty like Ron and Hermione, and if he had shown up like he was supposed to…Harry itched to check the Map, but he’d left it upstairs in his trunk.

So preoccupied was he with thoughts of Draco Malfoy’s potential wrong-doing that he nearly jumped out of his skin when somebody plopped down next to him on the sofa.

His hand was already around his wand before he even knew what he was doing, but he looked round, saw that it was only Ginny, and let go immediately.

“Blimey, Ginny, make a noise or something, you can’t just sneak up on a person like that,” Harry said indignantly, settling back into his seat.

Ginny drew a leg up onto the cushions and rested an elbow on the back of the sofa, smirking. “Maybe you just have to be more observant,” she shot at him, winking, but her smile softened, taking the sting out of her words. “What’s up?”

Harry shrugged noncommittally. Ginny pulled her hair around to rest on one side of her neck, and a pleasant, familiar floral scent drifted faintly through the air. She held an open bottle out to him. “Pumpkin juice?”

“No, thanks,” said Harry automatically, and as if on cue he suddenly became aware of how very hungry he was. Harry thought he saw a brief flash of some indefinable emotion in Ginny’s eyes, but she shrugged indifferently and took a swig herself.

“What are you doing over here alone, why don’t you come sit with me and Neville?”

Ginny nodded over to a far corner, and Harry followed her gaze to see Neville poking cautiously at a tiny spiked plant resting in the palm of his hand. As Harry watched, one of the miniscule spikes lashed out suddenly, pricking Neville’s finger, and Neville whipped his hand back, frowning at the small plant in disapproval. Harry felt a smile tug at his lips.

“I reckon it’s a miracle he’s not been strangled to death by one of those things yet,” he mumbled.

Ginny laughed, and Harry looked at her, smiling for real this time at the sound of it. Her eyes seemed to light up as she laughed, and Harry appreciated for the first time what a nice shade of brown they were. Harry stared at her as she glanced over at Neville again.

She was, genuinely, very pretty and it was really no surprise, he thought, that half the school wanted to date her. Dean Thomas was a lucky bloke….

One of Ginny’s friends passed by their sofa and Ginny said something to her that Harry didn’t catch before sticking her fingers up in a rude gesture. Ginny laughed again, and Harry noticed that her lips were slightly chapped, like a lot of Quidditch players’. That half-pleasant, half-queasy feeling swooped through him again, and he suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss her –

A lump of lead seemed to slide down Harry’s throat into his aching stomach as his brain caught up to him. The realisation of what he had just been thinking washed over him like a bucket of icy water:

_He'd wanted to kiss Ginny Weasley._

All at once it tumbled into place like a landslide, his strange and sudden antagonism toward Dean, whom he had absolutely no reason to dislike. Why he always felt oddly guilty when Ginny and Ron were in the same room, why it was always her turning into Romilda when he had those weird dreams….

Ginny turned back to him, and the grin slid off her face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her eyebrows scrunching together.

But Harry’s throat seemed to have closed up. He stood abruptly, making Ginny jump. His head swam for a moment at the sudden motion, and he furtively clutched the arm of the sofa for support, hoping Ginny wouldn’t notice. He opened his mouth and then closed it again as she sat up a bit straighter and stared up at him in concern. He cleared his throat. “I- nothing….” he said finally. “Nothing, I just…I have to go….”

The clock over the fireplace chimed eight o’ clock, and Harry suddenly remembered with enormous relief that he really _did_ have to go.

“Detention. With Snape. See you later,” he said shortly, jabbing his thumb toward the portrait hole and backing away.

“Harry, wait – ” Ginny insisted, moving to rise off the couch, but Harry turned away from her, nearly bumping into two different people as he hurried toward the door.

When the portrait closed behind him, Harry ducked quickly behind a statue, his mind racing as he listened to the Fat Lady and her friend Vi gossip about a painting of nuns down on the fifth floor. Several seconds passed, and when it became clear that Ginny was not going to follow him, Harry sagged against the tower wall in relief. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and ran a hand over his face.

_How could this possibly be happening?_

He, Harry, _fancied_ Ginny Weasley. And he’d been so absolutely thick about it that it had crept up behind him and practically clubbed him over the head.

Harry groaned, and he would have liked to have sunk down onto the floor and stayed there only he had a detention to get to, so instead he forced himself away from the wall and stalked off towards the stairs.

He hadn’t liked anyone since Cho, and that whole situation had turned out to be a complete disaster. Ginny was his _friend_ , they’d practically grown up together. She was _Ron’s sister,_ for heaven’s sake! Harry didn’t even want to think of Ron’s reaction if he ever found out….

Or her parents’ for that matter, Harry thought, his spirits sinking even lower.

 _Why did it have to be **her**?_  he thought in frustration, walking a bit faster. Why now, after he had just recently decided that he’d be quite content never to kiss another girl as long as he lived?

And there was no avoiding her. He had to see her, in the common room, at meals, during Quidditch practice…god, _Quidditch practice._ Harry felt like groaning again, and he ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

Harry’s flustered thoughts stumbled over each other, spiraling higher into something resembling panic, and he was just thinking about the fact that Ginny had six strong and healthy older brothers, all bigger than he was, when he ground to a halt, realising that he had come to Snape’s office door. Harry stared blankly at the grain of the wood, distantly aware that he had at least a few minutes before he really had to go in.

As he studied a particularly dark knot on the door’s surface, another thought came to him, bright and clear, closing off his developing panic like a thick curtain. A soothing, peaceful sense of calm came over him as sanity returned:

He didn’t have to do anything about his feelings.

He _couldn’t_ do anything about them.

It was unthinkable.

Ginny already had a boyfriend, for one thing, and for another, there was his friendship with Ron to consider.

Most of all, Harry knew, deep down, that Ginny could never really be happy with someone like him – a boy with a target painted on the back of his head and enough baggage to fill several entire compartments of the Hogwarts Express….

Feeling suddenly much lighter than was usual for someone about to experience a detention with Severus Snape, Harry squared his shoulders, raised his fist to knock, and forcefully pushed all thoughts of Ginny from his mind.

 

* * *

 

“Potter,” Snape said without preamble as soon as Harry had entered. “Don’t bother getting settled, you will be serving your detention in the dungeons this evening.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, doing his utmost to hide his disappointment as Snape gathered books and papers from his desk; it might still only have been September but the dungeons were already far colder than the rest of the castle.

Snape swept by Harry without looking at him, and Harry followed him silently down through the narrow, damp passageways to a disused classroom where Snape pointed to a pile of filthy, crusted cauldrons.

“You will clean all of these – _without_ magic,” Snape informed him, his lip twitching slightly, and Harry could tell he was trying not to smirk. “You have two hours. If you have not scrubbed out every single cauldron, or have not cleaned them to my satisfaction, you will be… _provided the opportunity_ to finish the job in another detention. On Saturday,” he finished, and this time he did smirk. “Well? Get to it.”

Harry doubted very much whether any of the cauldrons he washed that evening would satisfy Snape, but he clenched his jaw tightly to keep from saying this. Without a word, he retrieved a bottle of cleaner and a scrub brush from the supply closet and set to work as Snape seated himself behind the teacher’s desk, burying his large, crooked nose in a giant, very boring-looking book.

Harry sank to his knees and delved into the first cauldron with a grimace – there was a thick layer of what looked (and smelled) like solidified vomit coating the bottom and sides, and Harry resigned himself to a long evening of holding his breath and attempting not to gag.

Harry painstakingly made his way through the pile, the muscles in his arms and back protesting as he scrubbed. As the minutes dragged on he started to feel increasingly lightheaded, but he didn’t dare pause in his cleaning; he could feel Snape’s eyes on him from time to time, watching him like a hawk. And anyway, he wanted this detention over with as quickly as possible. He had Quidditch practice on Saturday, and his homework situation was becoming rather desperate. He couldn’t afford another detention this week.

When he’d got most of the way through the pile, Harry dropped his brush, stretching out his aching fingers, and moved to gather up some of the smaller cauldrons to take over to the storage shelves. As he climbed to his feet, however, his vision fogged over and he staggered a bit drunkenly, feeling suddenly weightless. He accidentally dropped one of the cauldrons with a loud clang, the sound startling him much more than it should have done, and he shook his head forcefully, trying to clear it.

“Problem, Potter?”

Snape’s voice was quiet. Dangerous. Harry raised his head, squinting, to find the man staring at him, his book closed and marked with a finger, virtually no expression upon his face apart from one quirked eyebrow.

Harry felt overwhelmingly hot all of a sudden, which seemed mildly absurd to him given how cold he’d got used to being lately, and he fought to steady himself as an empty nausea rolled through him. The cauldrons in his arms felt like they weighed a ton.

“No, sir,” said Harry, and he was relieved to hear that his voice sounded much more solid than he felt.

Snape stared steadily at him a moment longer, and then went back to his book without another word. Harry sucked in a ragged breath as silently as possible then bent down cautiously to retrieve the cauldron he’d dropped. He was just thinking, gratefully, that his head seemed to be clearing, when he straightened back up, heard a loud rushing in his ears, and promptly lost consciousness.

 

* * *

 

When Harry came to, he knew immediately he had only been out a few seconds, for the clatter of cauldrons bouncing and rolling across the floor was still echoing in his ears, and Snape’s chair was scraping back against the stones. Harry instinctively tried to sit up, but it seemed to him that he had lost the bones in his arms and legs. His head felt like Dudley had just used it for boxing practice.

Snape swam into view and knelt down, a big black mass looming ominously over Harry as his head gave a particularly nasty throb. Harry bit down on his lip to keep from moaning in pain.

“Potter. Can you hear me?” Snape demanded, his too-loud voice bouncing painfully around the inside of Harry’s skull.

Harry tried to nod, but discovered that was a bad idea. “Yes….” he mumbled.

“Don’t move,” said Snape shortly and pulled out his wand.

Harry couldn’t help but flinch as Snape pointed it at him. Snape waved his wand silently over Harry’s body, his expression unreadable. He paused as though focusing on something Harry could not see, and then stowed his wand again.

“You are not concussed,” he informed Harry without sympathy. “Though no doubt you will have a nasty headache.”

He seized Harry by the arms and hauled him to his feet where he stood, swaying, his head pounding, Snape’s thin fingers curled uncomfortably around his bicep. Harry could feel a knot forming at the back of his head where he’d hit the ground. There was silence for a moment during which Harry clutched his aching skull. He tried to pull away, but Snape did not let go.

He was staring at Harry, his eyes narrowed slightly, and after a beat he spoke again. “When was the last time you ate something, Potter?”

Harry’s head jerked up in surprise, the motion making the pounding double in intensity. He schooled his features into what he hoped was pure confusion, his insides squirming uncomfortably with nerves and something that felt very much like guilt.

He wracked his brains for something he’d eaten that day. “I dunno….” he muttered, a little resentfully. _What did Snape care, anyway?_ “Lunch,” he lied.

Snape’s hand around his bicep tightened, and his black eyes bored into Harry’s.

Harry realised, suddenly, what Snape was doing, what he was _going_ to do, but he seemed unable to look away, and panic crawled up into his throat as he attempted futilely to brace his mind against Snape’s invasion.

He thrust all thoughts of Sirius, and his recent discovery of his feelings for Ginny, and everything that had happened in the past few weeks away from the surface of his mind, shoving it all back where he hoped Snape wouldn’t see. Harry tried hastily to clear his mind, to think of nothing, but he had never been very good at that, and as Snape’s cold, narrowed eyes looked into his, an image of himself throwing away the crumpets Ron had given him swam before he eyes, followed swiftly by others –

_Lying curled over in bed at night, his stomach constricting with hunger…Hermione scolding him for not cleaning his plate…her voice, just days ago, as she and Ron confronted him in the dormitory:_

**_“You aren’t eating….”_ **

Snape’s eyes narrowed even further, his grip on Harry’s arm painful now.

Silence stretched between them for what felt like ages. Then finally:

“You fool,” Snape said softly, his lip curling, and released Harry.

He looked at Harry a second more, then nodded curtly toward the remaining dirty cauldrons. “I believe you have a job to finish.”

And he turned away, striding back to his desk.

Harry stood rooted to the spot, alarm and astonishment racing around his brain, not daring to breathe. He felt exposed and vulnerable, like he’d just been ushered on stage without his clothes on. He knew with dreadful certainty what Snape had seen in his head, but he wasn’t sure what he had expected Snape to do with the information.

Call Dumbledore, or McGonagall? Tell Madam Pomfrey, send him to the hospital wing? Give him another detention for being mad, and difficult, and stupid?

But Snape was not doing any of that.

Harry watched numbly as the man settled himself in his chair and picked up his book once again. Snape was not paying him the least bit of attention. His body seemed to unfreeze. Snape did not seem at all shocked or disturbed by the dirty little secret he had just wrested from Harry’s mind….

The man hadn’t even shown enough concern to give Harry anything for the raging headache he’d got from passing out cold on a dungeon floor.

Of course he hadn’t.

Snape didn’t care if Harry had a little headache, and he didn’t care if Harry skipped a few meals now and then. What was it to him? Snape was glad to see Harry miserable. Harry’s breath returned to his chest as relief flooded through him, and he turned back to rest of the grimy cauldrons, grateful, for the first time in his life, that Severus Snape totally and utterly hated him.

 

* * *

 

“Orange juice?”

Ron held up the pitcher, gesturing questioningly at Harry’s cup.

Harry glanced up, chin resting in his hand, and shook his head. “Nah…thanks….”

Ron shrugged one shoulder and set the pitcher down, returning to his own breakfast.

Harry watched him for a moment, then looked over at Ginny, who, much to Harry’s chagrin, was sitting right beside him. She took a bite of toast before tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning over to add another set of letters to a crossword puzzle she was working on. She looked up abruptly, perhaps sensing his eyes on her, and gave him a small smile.

Ginny hadn’t asked him why he’d got so upset before he had left for detention on Thursday, but Harry could sense it was still bothering her.

Harry’s stomach turned a small somersault. He briefly returned her smile and looked away towards Hermione, who was now deep in a debate with Ron about whether ketchup counted as a vegetable (“Hermione – it _literally_ is made of tomatoes.” "A tomato is a fruit, Ron."). Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny go back to her crossword.

Harry considered the three of them, frowning. They – Ron, Hermione, and Ginny – had all got into the strangely coincidental habit over the last few days of offering him something to drink at random opportunities, even when he was perfectly capable of getting it himself.

It was usually juice. Or tea. Sometimes water.

Never coffee.

And he was developing a niggling suspicion that they had all got together at some point, and that he, Harry, had been the subject of discussion.

Irritation flared in the pit of his stomach at the thought. He did not know why they would have abruptly and collectively decided to try and pump him full of fluids, but he was beginning to find it annoying and he wished he could find a way to tell them to cut it out without sounding slightly paranoid. Harry bitterly pushed his fried tomatoes around on his plate.

He’d started to absolutely dread meals in the Great Hall.

He knew he’d been skipping too many for Ron and Hermione’s comfort, and he was aware he was treading on dangerous ground, as evidenced by the little chat they’d seen fit to have with him, so he’d started showing up for more of them, and tried to eat enough to keep their anxiety over his dining habits under control.

Harry looked briefly up at the staff table where Snape was seated, a small burst of nerves exploding in his belly. But Snape, like the other night, was paying him absolutely no mind.

Harry’s stomach chose that moment to growl unhelpfully, and Hermione glanced at him before turning back to Ron. Harry stabbed one of the smaller bits of tomato and brought it to his mouth, chewing till it was nothing more than mush and swallowing reluctantly.

Harry didn’t know whether it was because he was so tired and irritated all the time now, or if the house elves in the kitchens had changed their recipes, but the Hogwarts food had acquired a strange taste, as if it was all made from the same substance. Like sawdust. Or cardboard. The texture of the meat made Harry’s stomach turn over. He seemed to have lost the taste for things he used to like. Sweets didn’t taste as sweet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a piece of treacle tart….

Even though he’d gone off the food a bit, he found himself thinking more and more about it.

Harry knew he couldn’t eat whatever he wanted. That was just a plain, simple fact. His brain never shut up about it anymore. He knew if he ate what he used to eat, what Hermione and Ron and everyone else would say he was _supposed_ to eat, he would feel ghastly…feel weak and angry and awful.

But that hadn’t stopped him from wanting everything he could get his hands on.

He’d started having random fantasies about Mrs. Weasley’s cooking (puddings, especially), which would surely taste far better than whatever the elves were producing these days. He had even woken up from a bizarrely delightful dream in which he’d managed to eat a full five helpings of roast beef and mashed potatoes covered in melted chocolate and marshmallows, the combination of which, of course, had made perfectly logical sense in his dream.

Harry thought with a pang of all those days and nights he had spent as a kid with a locked cupboard door standing between him and relief from his hunger. He wondered ruefully what his younger self would think to see Harry now, escaped from the cupboard, surrounded by enormous dishes of food, and still going hungry....

“Harry, will you please tell _your_ friend that ketchup is a _condiment!_ ” Hermione burst out, pulling Harry from his brooding.

“Wha- ? Oh. Right,” he agreed vaguely, twisting his fork. “Yeah.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron sniggered, but Harry’s gaze wandered to Hermione’s left, where he’d just noticed the unmistakable blond head of Draco Malfoy bent over whispering to Crabbe.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s and he smirked. Harry looked stonily back at him, but then Malfoy glanced over at Ginny and leaned over to Crabbe again, laughing. Harry felt a hot flood of anger and a sudden, fierce flash of protectiveness. His fist clenched on his knee….

Malfoy’s gaze swept further down the Gryffindor table, and though Harry couldn’t be sure, he thought it rested upon Demelza Robins and Jimmy Peakes for a second before the Slytherin turned his attention back to his own housemates.

Harry continued to stare for a while, trying to decide what to make of this odd behaviour, but Malfoy did not look at him again, and it wasn’t until Ginny tapped him on the shoulder that he realised it was time to head down to the pitch for Quidditch practice.

 

* * *

 

Never in a million years would Harry have thought he’d be disappointed that Snape hadn’t assigned him an extra Saturday detention. But as he walked down to the Quidditch pitch between Ginny and Ron he couldn’t help but feel that he’d rather be anywhere else.

His arm kept brushing against Ginny’s, and though she seemed not to notice, it was taking every ounce of Harry’s willpower to keep walking calmly next to her instead of taking refuge on the other side of Ron like a spineless git.

Not that Ron’s presence, of course, was making things any easier.

Desperate for a distraction, Harry struck up a conversation with Ron about their Herbology essay, and nearly felt like sighing in relief when the entrance to the pitch loomed up ahead of them. The sun was still hanging low in the sky and the three of them had to shield their eyes as they made their way into the changing rooms where the rest of the team already sat waiting, lacing up boots and gloves and chatting amongst themselves.

To Harry’s mild surprise, Dean Thomas was also waiting, just inside the door, to greet Ginny before finding a seat in the stands to watch her practise. They exchanged a less-than-chaste kiss, and Harry turned away to his locker, wondering whether to feel vindicated in his decision to shut down his feelings for Ginny, or to tell Dean to go ahead and find somewhere else to wait next time.

Ron made a strangled sound beside him, and Harry glanced over to see a vague look of disgust on his face, his eyes trained determinedly on the Keeper’s gloves in his hands. Dean left, nodding to Harry and Ron on his way out, and Ginny came over, pulling on her own gloves.

“D’you have to do that in public?” Ron asked her brusquely, shutting his locker and settling down on a bench to pull on his pads.

“What, snog?” Ginny barely spared him a glance as she sat down next to him, facing the opposite direction. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to look,” she said coolly.

Ron pulled a face at her back as she turned away to talk to Demelza.

Harry shut his own locker and steadfastly avoided Ron’s eye as he addressed the group. “We’ll be doing position practice today, so just start out with the partners you had last week and we’ll switch halfway through, alright? Everyone ready? Let’s go.”

Harry watched his team file out ahead of him, then heaved a deep breath, seized his Firebolt, and followed them, closing the door behind him with a sharp snap.

He hadn’t walked ten steps onto the pitch before he knew something was very wrong.

Katie Bell was knelt down thirty feet away, examining the grass, the rest of the team huddled around her, their confusion palpable even from where Harry was standing. He took a step toward them, then stopped and looked down in bewilderment as the grass crunched noisily under his foot. Squinting against the still-blinding sun, Harry copied Katie and crouched down, running his hand over the ground. The grass was badly charred, the blades crumbling under his fingers. Frowning, Harry looked around quickly at the surrounding field. Most of the grass had been left untouched – the burnt section stretched away in a thick line on either side of him like a foot path, toward the team on the right and shooting off to the far goal posts on the left.

Harry straightened up, raising a hand to shield his eyes, and noticed that the line branched off about halfway down the pitch. Movement off the side caught his eye, and he looked over at the stands where Dean and several others who had come to watch the practice were gathered, murmuring and pointing at the blackened field.

Katie and Ginny jogged over to him, matching looks of worry on their faces.

“What do you think happened?” Katie asked, anxiously tightening her pony tail. “Somebody must have done it on purpose, it looks like a pattern….”

Ginny seemed to pale as she looked at Harry. “You don’t think it’s…cursed, or something….?”

Harry stared back at her, his brain zooming into overdrive. _Cursed…._

He turned abruptly, his eyes darting back and forth, surveying the whole field, a sick dread climbing up his throat. “Wait here,” he told the girls, then mounted his broom and kicked off from the ground, hard.

The wind whipped across Harry’s face as he shot into the air, zooming toward the far end of the pitch and climbing higher and higher until he was even with the tops of the goal posts. He wheeled about sharply, his back to the sun, and felt the breath freeze in his lungs as he stared down at the grassy field in horror.

He could see the tiny forms of his teammates milling about the ruined ground, like insects. And surrounding them, burnt into the ground and filling nearly the entire breadth of the pitch, was the enormous, ugly image of a skull with a twisting snake spilling out of its mouth like a tongue….

The Dark Mark.

 

* * *

 

“D’you reckon someone’s really been, you know… _killed?_ ” Ron asked for the umpteenth time.

Harry wished he wouldn’t. “Doubt it,” he grunted, “we’d have heard about it by now, wouldn’t we?”

Ron’s only response was to kick impatiently at the ground again. Harry glanced back at the pitch entrance.

As soon as Harry had confirmed his suspicions about what had been carved into the Quidditch pitch, he had sent Jimmy up to the school to fetch Professor McGonagall. She had shown up with Dumbledore and Madam Hooch not five minutes later, her face grim, and ordered all students off the pitch and back up to the school immediately.

Harry had remained behind, however, determined to know what was going on, and Ron and Ginny, who seemed just as anxious to know as he was, had stayed with him. They had planted themselves just outside the arena and were now waiting anxiously for the teachers to finish up their examination of the field.

“Ron, will you sit down?” Ginny demanded, plopping down next to Harry on the grass. “You’re making me nervous.”

Ron ignored her and punted a small rock pointedly across the lawn.

Ginny rolled her eyes and snapped off a thick blade of grass, twisting it between her fingers. She propped her forearms on her knees in a reflection of Harry’s position and gently nudged his elbow with hers.

“How are your hands?” she asked him.

At the edge of his vision, Harry saw Ron still, as if listening for Harry’s answer.

“Better,” Harry said, tugging his sleeves down over his wrists self-consciously. He decided not to mention the fact that he’d accidentally scratched some of the wounds back open since she had healed them. “Thanks, again, for that….”

“No problem. Water?” She pulled a bottle out of her robes and offered it to him.

Harry looked at it, an automatic ‘no, thank you’ on the tip of his tongue, before his brain caught up to him. Water was safe. It usually helped, actually.

“Thanks,” he said again, taking the bottle from her. He lifted it to his lips and sniffed at it surreptitiously, though he knew he was being stupid. Ginny would never slip something into his drink. But he couldn’t help himself.

Harry took a couple of swigs and handed it back to her. She took a drink herself, and as she stowed the bottle back in her robes, she said, “Are you feeling alright?”

Harry looked at her for the first time. Her face was open, her bright brown eyes searching his. “Yeah,” Harry said, his mouth going dry. “Why?”

Ginny gave a little shrug, still looking at him. “You just seem…tired, lately.”

For one suspended, frightening second, as they looked at each other, Harry found he wanted to admit to Ginny that yes, he was very tired. And hungry. And felt like he was going just a little bit mad, maybe. But then he glanced away, and it passed, and what he said was: “Nah, I’m fine. Just had a lot of homework.”

Harry thought he saw Ron make a sharp movement out of the corner of his eye.

Ginny, beside him, said nothing.

“‘Course you’d know about that by now,” Harry went on, determined to move away from the subject, “you’ve got O.W.L.s this year, has McGonagall given you her lecture yet?”

“Which one?” Ginny laughed as Ron finally settled down beside them, and the three of them spent the next few minutes arguing good-naturedly over whether the fifth or sixth years had it worse.

“Oi! What are you lot doin’ out here?”

Harry, Ron, and Ginny jumped and looked round at Hagrid, who was climbing towards them up the sloping lawn.

Harry clambered to his feet, grinning, as Hagrid reached them. “Hi, Hagrid,” he said happily, craning his neck to see the giant’s face as he dusted himself off.

“‘Hi’ yerself,” Hagrid said gruffly, clapping Harry on the back and nearly sending him tumbling back onto the grass. “Back at school a month, an’ yeh haven’t bin ter see me, eh?” But his beetle-black eyes were crinkled in a smile behind his bushy beard.

Harry shrugged a bit sheepishly, rubbing his smarting shoulder. “Sorry,” he said sincerely. “Been busy.”

“We were going to come visit after Quidditch tryouts, but – ” Ron broke off abruptly, shifting his weight, and glanced at Harry.

“But they went on forever, and then I had a detention with Snape,” Harry covered, grimacing for good measure. _Liar_ , a voice whispered into his mind, and the scratches on his wrists gave an itchy throb. Ginny hummed vaguely behind him.

Hagrid seemed not to hear her, however. “Aren’ yeh supposed to be practisin’?” he asked, eyeing their brooms laying on the ground.

“We’re waiting for Dumbledore and McGonagall,” Harry explained, and he told Hagrid all about the skull burnt onto the pitch.

“A Dark Mark!” Hagrid burst out, his giant head swiveling to stare at the walls of the stadium in horror. “At Hogwarts! But no one’s bin killed, have they?”

“That’s what we were wondering, but I don’t think they have,” Ginny said calmly. “It wasn’t a _real_ Dark Mark, not one of those green smoky things in the sky….”

“Still,” Hagrid insisted darkly. “Doesn’ bode well....”

At that moment, Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall emerged from the pitch entrance. Harry’s stomach jumped instantly, and he snatched his Firebolt off the ground and hurried over to them, Ron, Ginny, and Hagrid trotting along in his wake.

“I believe I told you to return to the castle, Potter,” McGonagall said as Harry skidded to a stop, looking at him sternly over the tops of her square spectacles.

“Yes, sorry, Professor,” Harry said quickly. He glanced at Dumbledore. The headmaster said nothing, but his moustache twitched in the barest trace of a smile as he looked down at Harry. “I just wanted to know what happened.”

“Of course you did,” McGonagall replied dryly.

“No one’s hurt, are they?” Ron asked uneasily, and she looked around at the rest of the group.

“I don’t believe so, no,” she assured them, and they all relaxed a little. “There has been no such report from either the school or Hogsmeade village. The Mark itself does not appear to be cursed or jinxed in any way – it seems to be nothing more than a prank of some kind.”

“A prank?” echoed Harry incredulously.

“Someone drew You-Know-Who’s sign on Hogwarts grounds, Professor!” Ginny blurted, and Harry felt a rush of gratitude for her.

“Yes, a _prank_ ,” McGonagall said firmly. “A highly distasteful one, unquestionably, and we will certainly be looking for the person responsible….”

Hagrid turned to Dumbledore. “Are yeh sure, Professor? Everyone’s alrigh’?”

“Oh yes, quite sure, Hagrid,” Dumbledore said reassuringly, reaching up to pat the giant’s arm. “Our Madam Hooch is entirely confident she can restore the field to its former glory by tomorrow. At which time,” he added, turning to Harry, “you will be free to reschedule your practice.”

Harry nodded. He shifted his broom in his hands and bit his lip, debating.

“Yes, Harry?” Dumbledore was watching him closely.

“Sir, do you…do you think whoever did this was the same person who wrote all that stuff on the second floor?” Harry asked carefully.

The headmaster paused. “Yes, I believe that is a possibility.”

“Why?” asked McGonagall sharply. “Do you know something about this, Potter?”

Harry resisted the urge to glance at Ron. “…no, Professor.”

“Very well, then,” she said briskly. “It is nothing I would worry yourself about, any of you.” She gave one last firm look to Harry, Ron, and Ginny before nodding to Dumbledore. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve still some paperwork to finish….”

“Of course, Professor,” said Dumbledore, and McGonagall strode off across the lawn toward the castle.

Hagrid exchanged a few more words with Dumbledore and then ambled away in the direction of his hut, waving and calling over his shoulder to Harry and Ron. “See yeh soon!”

Ron and Ginny turned to make their way back to the school, and Harry started to follow them, but Dumbledore stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait a moment, please, Harry,” he said quietly, and Harry watched as the headmaster withdrew a tightly-furled scroll from his robes. “Our next lesson,” he explained upon seeing Harry’s questioning look. Harry’s heart leapt, and he took the scroll gratefully, stowing it away in his own robes.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said. The burst of adrenaline and nerves he’d got from seeing that Mark spread out on the Quidditch field like a death omen still lingered in his system – he was practically itching to get back to their lessons, to be able to do something useful, and he hoped the date Dumbledore had set wasn’t too long from now….

Harry looked up to find Dumbledore watching him intently, those piercing blue eyes giving Harry that familiar sensation of being x-rayed, like Dumbledore could see straight inside him. Harry fought the impulse to squirm.

“Have you been looking after yourself, Harry?” Dumbledore asked evenly.

The hand on Harry’s shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly, and Harry was seized by a sudden paranoia that Dumbledore could feel all of his bones through his clothes –

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, very quietly, and forced himself not to look away.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment as he studied Harry over his glasses.

“That’s good to hear,” he finally said softly, then released Harry, patting him on the shoulder. “I think I shall go and assist Madam Hooch – your friends seem to be waiting for you.” He nodded at Ron and Ginny, who had stopped about twenty feet away.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said again, and walked away quickly without looking back.

“What was that about?” Ginny asked curiously when Harry had joined them.

Harry shrugged. “Nothing, really, he just asked how I was,” he lied.

He caught Ron’s eye, giving him a significant look that said ‘I’ll tell you later,’ and the three of them headed back to the castle, Harry feeling uncomfortably all the while as though his shoulder were burning beneath his robes.

 

* * *

 

“ _What?_ ” Hermione practically shrieked, accidentally blotting her parchment with a few fat drops of ink.

As soon as they’d got back to the common room, Harry and Ron had wasted no time in telling Hermione all about what had happened at Quidditch practice.

“Is everyone alright?” she asked urgently, forgetting her homework. “What did McGonagall and Dumbledore say?”

“They said it some sort of prank….”

“Well of course it was a prank, if no one was hurt, but it’s still quite serious – ”

“Oh so _now_ it’s serious?” Harry questioned irritably. “Malfoy can write whatever he wants about Muggle-borns on the walls, but he has to actually put up a Dark Mark before anyone takes it seriously – ”

“You don’t know it was him, Harry.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said flatly, thinking of the way Malfoy had laughed with Crabbe at breakfast.

“Merlin’s bollocks….” Ron muttered wearily under his breath as Harry and Hermione frowned at each other. “Harry!” he exclaimed in a fake-bright voice that was clearly meant to change the subject. “Didn’t Dumbledore tell you something you’d like to share with the class?”

“Oh, yeah!” Harry said quickly, forgetting about Malfoy for the moment and searching around in his robes for the scroll Dumbledore had given him. He pulled it out and undid the little ribbon. “He said it was about our next lesson….” He flattened out the parchment and scanned Dumbledore’s slanting handwriting eagerly, then felt his heart sink. “It’s not for two more weeks….”

“Well it’s not that far off,” Hermione encouraged him. “And anyway that gives you more time to focus on your schoolwork.”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” said Harry gloomily, shoving the note back in his pocket.

“And you’ll tell us what he teaches you this time?” Ron asked with a hint of exasperation.

But Harry did not get a chance to respond, for at that exact moment, a piercing screech resounded from the staircase leading up to the girls’ dormitories, followed by the sound of hurried, stomping footsteps, and then Romilda Vane emerged at the bottom of the stairs, a thunderous look on her face, which had been dyed a vivid, shimmering purple, her equally discolored hands planted on her hips as she glared around accusingly at the packed common room.

There was a deafening second of stunned silence as everyone stared at her, and then a great eruption of laughter as people rolled around in their seats, falling against each other in hysterics, tears of mirth streaming down their faces.

“WHO _DID_ THIS?” Romilda shrieked, her eyes wild.

Harry gaped at her as all the students around him howled and roared.

He felt oddly frozen.

A triumphant laugh was threatening to bubble up into his throat, but he looked around in shock, wondering what reason someone else might possibly have for playing a practical joke on Romilda.

_What if someone knew about…?_

But no one was looking at him, or giving any hint that they’d had anything to do with Romilda’s new shiny purple skin, and Harry relaxed a bit, letting himself give into laughter for the first time in what felt like ages.

Hermione stood up, stifling her own giggle, and tried to call order. “Alright, alright, it’s _not_ funny, now let’s have it, who’s responsible for this?” But no one was paying her any heed. She turned around and tugged at Ron’s arm. “Come _on_ , you’re a Prefect too, we have to find out what happened – ”

But Ron was bent over double, face buried in his arms, quaking with silent laughter, and Hermione gave him up as useless.

“Oh come on, Hermione,” Ginny laughed from the next table over. “Who cares? Everyone knows Romilda’s a rotten, spoiled harpy!”

Hermione crossed her arms, and frowned disapprovingly down at Ginny, Ron, and Harry.

But Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel the least bit badly as Romilda stamped her foot furiously, gave another wordless shriek of indignation, and stomped back up the stairs, her outraged friends jumping up out of their seats to accompany her.

 

* * *

 

That night, Harry climbed the stairs to bed feeling better than he had in weeks. Romilda was refusing to show her face in the common room until she was cured, the Gryffindor team had all confirmed they were free to practise next day, and he had his next lesson with Dumbledore to look forward to. He had even managed to get through some of his homework, finishing two of the essays that had been giving him trouble.

“Lucky for you,” Ron grumbled as he pushed open the door to their dormitory. “I still haven’t even thought of a topic for mine. Maybe I’ll ask Hermione tomorrow….”

“What am I, a troll?” Harry demanded, holding a hand to his chest in mock-offense.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ron chuckled as he tossed his wand on the bedside table. “I mean, if it looks like one….”

“Oi!” Harry exclaimed and he seized his pillow, whipping it at Ron.

Ron ducked and grinned, snatching up the pillow and chucking it straight back at Harry, who caught it effortlessly with one hand. Ron shook his head, still grinning, and delved into his trunk to fish out a pair of pyjamas.

Neville stumbled into the room, waving tiredly to Harry, and went straight for the bathroom.

Feeling pleasantly light, Harry pulled his wand and Cloak out of his pocket and tossed them at the head of the bed, plopping his pillow back on top of them before shedding his robes and lobbing them into the laundry in the corner. He tugged his t-shirt over his head and threw that in the laundry too, yawning, his mind already turning fuzzy with the anticipation of sleep –

Ron swore loudly behind him, and Harry wheeled around, startled, expecting to see a spider, or Ron nursing a stubbed toe….

But Ron wasn’t looking at a spider, or a toe.

He was staring at Harry.

His eyes were wide, his mouth open very slightly as he took in Harry’s bare torso, his gaze sweeping over Harry’s collarbones, his shoulders, his ribs.

Harry flinched away instinctively under the examination, his body angling to the side, his shoulders hunching unconsciously forward. He steadfastly avoided Ron’s eyes.

“You’re skinny.” There was an odd mix of astonishment and accusation in his voice.

Harry glanced down at himself.

He hadn’t lost that much. No more than he usually did over the summer, anyway. He gave a jerky shrug, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sound like your mum….” he tried with a tense chuckle, glancing at Ron’s face.

Ron did not smile.

“Shit, Harry...I…I didn’t know it was this bad....” he said faintly, almost as if he were talking to himself. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard.

“Nothing’s _bad_ ,” Harry frowned, bristling. “I just haven’t been very hungry….”

A muted thump came from the direction of the bathroom and Harry and Ron both looked over to see Neville in the doorway, gathering up the towel he’d dropped. “Er - sorry,” he told them softly as he straightened back up. He was looking at Harry, too.

Flushing, Harry stalked around to his trunk, snatching up the first t-shirt he could find and pulling it roughly over his head. Realising he was still wearing his jeans, he grabbed a pair of pyjama bottoms and headed for the bathroom, walking around Neville without a word, and kicking the door closed.

When he came back, Neville and Ron were both sitting silently on their beds.

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Harry cut him off.

“I’m fine, Ron, just go to bed.”

“Harry – ”

“I’m going to sleep,” Harry bit out, taking off his glasses and climbing into bed. He yanked his hangings closed against Ron and Neville’s worried expressions and punched his pillow into shape, rolling over to lie stiffly on his side as he listened to the other two settle into their own beds.

Harry stared into the darkness, running his fingers along his bony wrist, scratching lightly at one of the blisters, heart thumping heavily in his chest. Ron’s shocked expression swam before his eyes no matter how hard he tried to block it out. He thought of Dumbledore’s piercing, studious gaze, and Lupin’s letter….

_If there’s anything, at all, you wish to talk about…._

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling suddenly as though all the air had been sucked out of the room, and tried to picture Romilda’s furious purple face. But after a while he had to admit that even that wasn’t enough to make him feel better, and he opened his eyes and drew his legs up to his chest, reluctantly resigning himself to another sleepless night as he swallowed down the burning lump in his throat.


	7. Hours on Empty: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got to be so long that I've split it into two, so here is part one - part two is also completed and will be posted in a couple days after I've had a chance to edit it!
> 
> Be aware that these chapters involve slightly more in-depth descriptions of disordered eating behavior, and Harry will only continue to adapt and adjust his behaviors until he starts accepting help.
> 
> Please take care! <3
> 
> Oh, and Happy September 1st! :D

Goosebumps erupted all over Harry’s skin as he examined himself, shivering and half-naked, in the dim light of the bathroom mirror. Cold water dripped off his nose, his chin, streamed down his neck in little rivulets, and he swiped it from his eyes, not bothering to dry the rest of his face before slipping his glasses back on. He had been pulled from his bed, again, by that dream of screams and panic and red light...Harry sighed wearily, the searing images of blood-red flashes dissipating in the cool bathroom as reality slunk back in.

He had more pressing concerns at the moment than tired old meaningless nightmares.

Like what he was going to say to Ron when he woke up. Ron’s stricken expression burst before his eyes again, and Harry winced, the memory making his gut swoop. He’d been an absolute _idiot,_ being so thoughtless….

But as he looked his bare torso up in down in the mirror, Harry had to admit he was not quite sure what Ron’s problem was. He tilted his head slightly, pinched the skin over his left hip bone, rolling it experimentally between his fingers. Frowning, he turned to the side and raised an arm, bringing his other hand up to trail over his ribs, his fingers slotting into the spaces between them, like puzzle pieces. Dropping his arms, Harry grasped the edges of the sink and leaned forward, his eyes sweeping over his face, the slight hollowness of his cheeks….

He supposed, as he continued to stare at himself, that he really had lost some weight. A few pounds, maybe.

Another shiver ran up his spine, this one having very little to do with the chill of the room, and a tiny, weak voice struggled to the surface of his mind: _What the hell are you doing? This is madness…._

But it wasn’t mad, not really, not when Harry thought about it. The weight loss was nothing, it was simply a side effect. Of what Harry had to do, what he _needed_ to do, to keep everything…balanced; that thought alone instantly calmed him. And in any case it didn’t seem nearly as bad to him as Ron and Neville had made it out to be.

As for what he was going to tell Ron, he had a few hours yet to work that out.

Harry looked away from his reflection and swiped the last remaining droplets of water from his face as he slipped silently back into the bedroom. Careful not to make a sound, he gathered up his things and made his way to the door, stuffing his worn and faded running sweats into his bag as he went.

 

* * *

 

The moon shone brightly into the darkened, shadowy corridors as Harry crept his way down to the Entrance Hall, peering out of the windows as he passed. There was not yet even a hint of sunrise, and Harry was glad of it – he could take all the time he wanted this morning.

Pausing by a window, Harry pulled out the Marauder’s Map and gave it the cursory scan that was routine by now, but Malfoy’s tiny dot was installed in the Slytherin area of the dungeons, completely immobile. Harry had expected it; he’d got into the habit of checking the Map every time he woke in the middle of the night, always with the same result, but he couldn’t help but feel that little plunge of disappointment as he stowed the Map back in his bag. Harry sank onto the bench-sized windowsill and rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses.

He was so tired.

He sat there for a moment in the silence of the castle, face pressed into his hands, and let himself indulge in the thought of going back to his soft, warm bed. But he knew all too well there would be no use in it. There never was. His nightmares decided when he would wake, and he did not get second chances.

Pushing his glasses back into place, Harry stood and hauled his bag back over his shoulder, concentrating instead on not dragging his feet as he continued on his way.

The Entrance Hall was darker than the floors above, and Harry was halfway down the grand marble staircase before he was brought up short by the sight of someone standing by the front doors. Harry froze with one foot hovering in the air over the next step, panic racing down to toes before remembering he was covered by his Invisibility Cloak. He tiptoed down a few more steps, squinting at the mysterious figure. With a small start, he realised it was Tonks.

Harry knew she’d been one of the Aurors stationed at the school as extra security this year, but he hadn’t seen her since the students had arrived in Hogsmeade at the start of term. _Why was she here standing watch over the front entrance?_ There hadn’t been any guards for Harry to slip past on any of the other mornings he had sneaked out…then again, he’d never gone out quite this early before, either. As Harry watched, Tonks paced past the left door and bumped into a suit of armour, sending its spear clanging to the floor.

“Shhhh!” she whispered, flapping her hands frantically at the suit as though it could hear her and replacing the spear quickly in its hand as the clanking echo dissipated slowly into nothingness. A ghost in a waistcoat and a three-cornered hat glided through the west wall and passed over Tonks’ head without looking at her.

“My dear lady, _do_ try and keep it down, the occupants of this noble castle are still as yet swathed in the supple bosom of sleep these small hours,” he droned in a morose sort of voice, “Ahhh blessed sleep, it has been over a century since last I….”

His voice trailed away, waxing poetic about his last corporeal nap as he disappeared through the wall opposite. Tonks pulled a face, sticking her tongue out at the wall through which the ghost had vanished, and muttered something about inappropriate use of the phrase ‘supple bosom.’ Harry bit back a grin as he pulled the Map out again. There was a secret passageway out of the castle a couple of floors up, Harry knew – Filch knew about it, too, but the caretaker’s dot, hounded closely by the one labeled ‘Mrs. Norris,’ was on the opposite side of the castle at the moment, patrolling a hallway on the sixth floor. _Didn’t he ever sleep?_ Harry thought with annoyance. But the man was out of the way, at least, and Harry quietly retreated back up the staircase as Tonks started to pace back and forth again before the front doors.

Ten minutes, two staircases, and a dirty, steep slide down later, Harry emerged from behind a group of willow shrubs on the east side of the castle near the greenhouses. Glancing around quickly to make sure there were no more surprise guards lurking about, Harry set off around the castle towards the Quidditch pitch, wiping his grimy palms on his trousers as he went. A distant splash echoed over the grounds and Harry looked over at the lake to see one of the giant squid’s massive tentacles sloshing about in the shallows. The moonlight glinted brightly off the waves, and Harry, thinking of the extra hours he had before dawn, mulled over the thought of trying to get as far he could round the lake after his usual four laps around the pitch. Buoyed by the thought of the extra challenge, Harry squared his shoulders and quickened his pace towards the pitch.

 

* * *

 

Ice cold water beat down on Harry’s head, plastering his fringe to his face as he sat huddled on the floor of the changing room showers. Intense shivers wracked his body, making the side of his head bump jarringly against the shower wall, but he hardly noticed. His stomach cramped sickeningly again and he leaned quickly over to the side, retching. Nothing came up but a tiny stream of bile, and Harry curled up again, ducking his head between his knees and breathing heavily.

He had blacked out again.

Near the lake, right under the beech tree where his father and Sirius and Lupin had once sat relaxing as fifth years after their O.W.L. examinations. He had woken up, face pressed uncomfortably into the grass, the sky considerably lighter than it had been when he’d lost consciousness. It had been a dreadful, sickening feeling, waking up like that, forgetting utterly for a moment where he was, and then had come the realisation that anyone, _anyone_ , could have found him lying there like that out in the open….

He had managed to drag himself back to the Quidditch pitch, staggering, half-blind with his heart threatening to burst behind his ribs, but it had been a very close thing, and he’d nearly collapsed again from the effort.

Harry’s stomach rolled again as he sat there in the shower, and he tucked his head down a bit further, grasping his forearms and digging his nails in as hard as he could to ground himself. Harry had been close to death more times than he wished to remember, and this did not truthfully feel much different from any of those times…the thought did nothing to comfort him as he crouched there, struggling to draw a proper breath.

After a few more minutes, the world around Harry seemed to stabilise, and he raised his head cautiously, releasing his grip on his arms. The cold water stung a little as it washed over his arms, and Harry peered myopically at them – his nails had left ragged bloody crescents where he’d dug them in, and he watched, blinking, as the water washed away the blood in little tiny rivers that swirled around the drain and then disappeared without a trace. Harry stared at the drain a moment longer, then reached up, bracing himself against the tiles, and climbed gingerly to his feet. He bumped the tap over to ‘hot,’ confident now that the heat and steam were not going to make him pass out again. His whole body jerked at the sudden change in temperature, and he stood there, hunching under the blistering stream, once more wishing miserably that he was back in his bed, worrying about nothing more than Quidditch and homework and Seamus talking in his sleep.

When he felt marginally more human, Harry stepped out of the stall, wrapped a towel around his waist, and groped about for his glasses before he headed back around to the lockers to change. As he rounded the corner, however, Harry stopped so suddenly that he almost slipped on the wet floor.

Ron was sitting there on one of the benches with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped between them, gazing doggedly up at Harry. They looked at each other in silence for a long moment.

“You look like hell,” Ron said evenly.

Harry blinked slowly, contemplating the wooden legs of the bench on which Ron sat. Without a word, Harry walked around behind him, pulling his bag out of his locker. He glanced at Ron’s back, but he had not moved to turn around, so Harry slipped on his underwear and jeans and t-shirt before doing exactly what he knew Ron was expecting him to do and walking back around to sink down onto the bench opposite. The floor was icy under his bare feet, and he leaned over to dig through his bag, fishing out a pair of socks. As he pulled them on, he noticed his hands were still shaking, and he clasped them together, finally looking up at Ron.

“What are you doing up so early?” Harry asked him lightly.

Ron hesitated, ever so slightly, and Harry could tell it was one of those moments where Ron was gearing up to do something he found a bit awkward, but necessary. “Making sure you come to breakfast.”

Ron’s tone was firm, and resentment coiled in the pit of Harry’s stomach. He had suspected an attack like this, and he fought to keep his voice perfectly even. “I’m not a kid, Ron,” he said. “And I’m not – ”

“ – hungry, I know,” Ron finished for him, and Harry noticed that the tips of his ears were red. Ron’s hands jumped momentarily into the air, like a man at the end of his tether. “I don’t _care_ , Harry, I don’t care anymore if you’re not hungry, you’ve got to _eat_ something. I don’t care if it’s treacle tart or chips or, hell, a pile of chocolate frogs, just _something_ ….” He ran a hand frenetically through his hair. “I know you’re – you’re stressed, and you’ve got stuff to deal with and everything, I know that, but you’re gonna make yourself sick and – and I dunno….” He shrugged and shook his head slightly at the ground before looking back up at Harry, admitting very quietly, "I don't know what to do."

There was a gravity in Ron’s expression that was not usually there, and everything Harry had rehearsed in his head all morning, every possible answer he had been prepared to tell Ron fell away when faced with the reality of it, leaving Harry feeling uncomfortably disarmed. He wanted to say something, to offer some sound excuse, to fix the look on Ron’s face, and make everything better…easier….

Water dripped slowly from Harry’s hair onto the ground, making barely audible little splashing noises in the strained silence.

A thought occurred to Harry then, however, and his resentment returned. “Is that why you’ve all been trying to shove drinks down my throat? You and Hermione been talking about me to Ginny behind my back, have you?”

Ron looked slightly guilty at that, but his ears turned an even brighter shade of red, and he said sharply, “No, _Ginny’s_ been talking to _us_ about you, actually. It was her idea – she thought extra fluids might help a bit, and we all agreed – ”

_All agreed._

Harry tried to be angry about that, but the thought of Ginny’s concern deflated him. The idea was more than a little embarrassing, but he could not help the feeling of warmth that spread through him as he considered the effort Ginny had put into trying to help him.

“Well, you all can cut that out, if you don’t mind,” Harry said, without any real heat. Ron looked as though he wanted to argue, but Harry went on quietly. “It’s not as bad as you think...I’ll get over it. I always do.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but was not quite sure he achieved the desired effect; Ron continued to stare at him with that relentless worry in his eyes.

“Maybe…I don’t know, maybe Madam Pomfrey can give you something to help? You know, like an appetite stimulant or something?” Ron suggested, so hopefully that it made something twist deep inside Harry’s chest.

Harry picked at a thread on the hem of the t-shirt that had once belonged to Dudley. He had been telling Ron and Hermione over and over again that this…not-eating thing of his was all about a lack of hunger, but the fact that they believed this to be true nevertheless left him feeling a maddening combination of enormous relief and a profound sense of loneliness that he couldn’t shake. Harry cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” he managed in a low voice. “Yeah, maybe.”

Ron grimaced in a sympathetic, encouraging sort of way and nodded slightly, as though it had all been decided. “Alright then, come on. Breakfast.” He got up, his usual, casual air returning. “I wonder if they’ve got that raspberry jam this morning, the kitchens haven’t sent that up in ages….”

Harry pulled on his shoes and jacket, moving a bit more slowly than he normally might have done.

“Yeah. Breakfast,” he repeated heavily, scratching uneasily at one of his ragged wrists as he followed Ron out of the changing rooms.

 

* * *

 

Hermione picked up on the slight air of tension as soon as Harry and Ron sat down beside her in the Great Hall, and kept throwing the pair of them questioning glances, but Harry did not feel remotely like explaining. He had decided, reluctantly, that the easiest way to get Ron off his back for the time being was to go ahead and try to eat breakfast like it was perfectly normal and not a highly difficult and complicated thing to do. Harry spooned a pile of food onto his plate, hardly noticing what it was, and focused all his concentration on mentally reciting the names of every professional Seeker he could think of while he mechanically brought forkful after forkful to his mouth and swallowed.

The feeling of the food filling up his stomach brought him back to himself more than once, and Harry forced his mind as hard as he possibly could away from what was happening. The conversations going on all around Harry dimmed to a vague ringing, his hands and feet slowly turning so cold they were practically numb, and when Ron and Hermione got up to leave the table, Harry followed them robotically, his fork clattering loudly against his plate as it slipped from his fingers, thinking in a far-off sort of way that maybe it hadn’t been the easiest way after all.

 

* * *

 

Harry looked at his watch again as he passed Flitwick’s office door for the third time, even though it had only been perhaps a minute since he’d last checked it. Ron and Hermione had left fifteen minutes ago for lunch after extracting a promise from Harry, who had claimed he’d had to go to the bathroom, that he would catch them up. Instead, Harry had been wandering the halls of the seventh floor, pacing up and down, knowing full well he couldn’t follow them and trying to think of a way out of whatever would happen when he didn’t show up.

Even the thought of taking a step down the stairs made Harry’s lungs contract with panic.

A suffocating sense that the walls were trying to close in on him had hounded Harry since breakfast that morning; he hadn’t eaten so much in what felt like months, and the fullness in his belly had been almost too much for him to stand. He’d even been struck by a brief madness and considered sneaking away to throw up everything he’d managed to get down, but Harry had immediately recoiled at the thought – he’d tried throwing up on purpose once, when Aunt Petunia had fed him leftovers that had seen better days, but it had not been an easy thing. And anyway, something about being sick on purpose felt vaguely to him like crossing some sort of unspoken line. So, he had endured the feeling as best he could, distracting himself as much as possible with pacing around his dormitory and, when Neville had asked him to play, a few vigorous rounds of Exploding Snap in the common room.

Harry did not know what he was going to say to Ron and Hermione when they inevitably tracked him down; he had come up with many an excuse in his day, but his brain felt tired and slow, strangled by nerves and pressure and lack of sleep. Not for the first time that day, Harry contemplated just sitting down to _rest_ for a second, but the thought was only half-appealing. He had to keep moving, or he’d go insane….

His mind wandered to the Quidditch practice that had been rescheduled for that afternoon, and he busied himself with a mental rundown of all the drills he wanted to run with the team. He strolled past the gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore’s study… _Demelza had been having some trouble with her Sloth Grip Roll, he’d have to demonstrate that one again_ …the plain, wooden door of a broom closet came into view, and Harry crossed to the other side of the corridor, walking a bit faster… _Ritchie showed a tendency to beat the Bludgers with quite a lot of enthusiasm, which was admirable but compromised his aim a fair bit, and they’d definitely have to do some target practice…._

“Made it out of the bathroom after all, I see.”

Harry stopped in his tracks and looked round. He had made it back to the portrait of the Fat Lady without his noticing – Hermione was coming towards him up the corridor.

“That’s a relief, we thought you’d fallen in," she said dryly as she reached him. "Less paperwork for Filch now I see you haven’t drowned in the toilets….”

“I’m touched,” Harry deadpanned.

He knew at once that Ron had told Hermione what had happened the night before; her expression was mild, but her eyes kept flicking down to his chest like she could see through his shirt, and she had brought him a plate from the Great Hall. There wasn’t much on it, he saw, but there were clear signs that she had tried to add extra calories. The roll was small but slathered in butter, there was a pile of ketchup over two sausages, and the mashed potatoes were absolutely swimming in gravy. Hermione handed it to him, and Harry took it reluctantly. It seemed to weigh a ton in his hand.

“Where’s Ron?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a certain fondness in them all the same. “I left my bag in the Hall and he wouldn’t let me go back and get it, he insisted on doing it himself,” she said, shaking her head slightly.

Harry snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. “Gallant of him.”

A flush crept up Hermione’s cheeks, but she sniffed and said briskly. “Idiotic, more like, I’m perfectly capable of fetching my own things….”

“Trust me,” Harry reassured her, “he knows you’re more than capable by now – we both do.”

Hermione’s expression softened as she looked at him. “You look like you’re about to fall over, Harry, come sit down…” she said quietly, and she took him by the elbow, steering them both over to the wall where they sank down onto the stone floor. Hermione’s leg pressed against his, and Harry shifted away as casually as he could so that there was an inch or two of space between them. He set the plate down gratefully beside him.

“You should really try to eat some of that,” Hermione coaxed, nudging his side gently.

Harry stared at the plate, watched the gravy drip heavily off the mashed potatoes…he knew Ron and Hermione were only trying to help, but it did not stop him wondering a bit ruefully when exactly they had become so interfering. Suddenly remembering something he had been wanting to ask, Harry turned sharply to Hermione.

“Did you write Lupin?”

Hermione looked slightly surprised at the change of subject, but hugged her knees and shrugged in a very so-what-if-I-did sort of way. “Yes.”

“About me?”

“Yes, I did, I thought you two might be able to talk about – ”

“Hermione,” Harry ground out. “He doesn’t need that, he’s – ” He looked around quickly, lowering his voice. “He’s off doing something for Dumbledore, some sort of mission, and he doesn’t need _you_ distracting him with stuff that doesn’t matter….”

“Harry, you’re not a distraction to him. And it _does_ matter, and since you won’t talk to _us_ – ”

“There is – _nothing – wrong –_ I’ve told you that,” Harry huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Did you tell him about…about after tryouts?” he asked her accusingly.

“No…I didn’t!” she insisted, when Harry fixed her with a look. “But I do think _you_ should,” she added stubbornly, returning a bit of his glare.

Harry shook his head in disbelief and pushed himself off the floor, moving deliberately so that all the blood wouldn’t rush to his head too quickly.

“Where are you going?” Hermione demanded.

“The Owlery,” Harry said shortly, dusting himself off.

“You didn’t eat your lunch, you really need to – ” Hermione started, rising to her feet.

“I will. _I will, okay?”_ Harry said again at her stern expression, holding his hands up in a placating gesture and taking a few backwards steps away from her down the corridor before turning around and throwing over his shoulder, “Got to reply to Lupin, haven’t I?”

“There had better be something of substance in that letter!” she called after him, and Harry heard the scrape of her picking his plate up off the ground as he ducked around the corner.

 

* * *

 

Whatever Hermione’s intentions, the idea of Lupin asking Harry if he needed to talk simply because she had asked the man to do so was possibly one of the most mortifying things Harry could imagine, and he sent Hedwig off with a note apologising on Hermione’s behalf and reassuring his old professor that there was, indeed, nothing to be concerned about.

Slumping down on the Owlery’s steps, taking care to avoid a group of tiny mouse skeletons, Harry sat with his chin in his hands, poking dejectedly at a pile of straw with the toe of his trainer. A light wind whistled through the tower’s glassless windows, and he huddled closer to the wall. He could not go back to Hermione and her ketchup-smeared-sausages, nor could he stay here and hide forever, as attractive as that option seemed to him. He’d been careless, far too careless, these past few weeks, and now Ron and Hermione (and apparently Ginny) were watching more closely than ever.

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to eat _anything_ , exactly, it was just that Hogwarts fare was nothing but meat and butter and cream and sugar and fat, and Harry had developed a distaste for how… _heavy_ it all was. He just couldn’t eat enough of it to keep his friends happy. Harry closed his eyes and rubbed at them. What he needed was a way to eat enough to pacify them, without feeling like he wanted to scratch himself to shreds and vomit everything back up.

Harry suddenly sat up very straight; he’d just been struck by a brilliant thought, so clear and so simple he marveled that he hadn’t thought of it before. Scrambling to his feet as quickly as he dared, he took the spiral stairs two at a time, careful not to slip in any owl droppings as he hurried down to the floor below.

 

* * *

 

Having just finished serving lunch, the house-elves of the Hogwarts kitchens were busy bustling about, stowing pots and pans and plates, magicking away spills and messes and unused ingredients with snaps of their little fingers. Harry jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a head-on collision with an elf carrying a teetering stack of large brass pots, and the tiny elf squeaked a hasty apology as he hurried on, nodding politely to Harry. Another elf passed by, and before Harry could put out a hand to stop her, she spotted him and stilled, looking up at him with an adoring, servile expression that made Harry distinctly uncomfortable.

“Is there anything I can be getting you, sir?”

“Er – yes, actually, sorry to bother you, but do you know where I can find Dobby?”

A look of mild disapproval crossed the elf’s face, but she pointed over to the large brick fireplace at the other end of the room. “Over there, sir, but there is other elves, other _proper_ elves, if you is needing something done….”

“No, thanks, Dobby'll do just fine, he’s a friend, I wanted to ask him something – ”

The elf shook her head in the direction of the fireplace, as though the idea of being considered anything but a servant by a wizard was cause for deepest embarrassment, but she smiled toothily as she looked back at Harry and gave him a low bow that brought her long nose almost to the floor. “If that is all you is needing, sir….” And she scurried away.

Harry made his way up between the long wooden tables that sat directly beneath their House-table counterparts in the Great Hall; Dobby came into view a moment later, wearing his tea cosy hat, a pair of bright blue shorts, and a couple of mismatched socks, and carrying an armful of freshly-washed teacups, which he promptly dropped with a magnificent crash as soon as he saw Harry.

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby squealed, hurtling towards him and hugging him around the waist as Harry let out a stifled “Oof!”

“It’s good to see you, too, Dobby,” Harry grinned, patting the elf on the back as he squeezed Harry once more and released him.

“Oh, Dobby has been hoping to see Harry Potter again, it has been too long, sir – Dobby has missed him very much!” Dobby squeaked, beaming up at Harry and wringing his hands excitedly. “Would Harry Potter like some tea? If he does not mind Dobby saying so, Harry Potter is looking a bit peaky….”

“No, it’s okay. Look – ”

“Dobby is making a mess!” cried one of the other elves in a high-pitched voice, pointing to the heap of shattered teacups.

“Here let me – ” Harry said, taking out his wand, but Dobby stopped him, patting his hand graciously.

“Harry Potter is very kind, but Dobby can do it, sir!” he said happily. He snapped his fingers, and the pieces fitted themselves back together instantly, forming neat stacks of teacups in midair, and then zooming over to a shelf set against the wall where they settled gently without a scratch. Harry stared, impressed, and Dobby giggled delightedly.

Harry shook his head and said, “Listen, Dobby, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Anything, sir!”

“Are students allowed to make requests for meals? I mean, you know, their own individual meals?”

Dobby looked thoughtful for a moment. “Dobby thinks so, sir, there is no rules against it – only Corky tells Dobby about a student who came to Hogwarts ten years ago, from a pure-blood family, he was, and he made the kitchen serve him great steaks and fillets of fish and entire pheasants for every meal, and Corky says Professor Dumbledore put a stop to it straight away – ”

“Oh, well that’s alright then, this is nothing like that,” Harry assured him, relieved and more than a little revolted. He dug around in his pocket for his spare quill. “Have you got any paper?” He'd used the last of his in his letter to Lupin.

Dobby disappeared instantly with a loud crack, then reappeared just as suddenly a second later, holding out a small roll of parchment.

“Here you are, Harry Potter!” Dobby shrilled proudly.

Harry thanked him and sat down at one of the long tables, Dobby scrambling up onto the bench opposite to watch him.

The summer two years ago when Dudley’s school had finally put him on a diet had been one of the most miserable times of Harry’s life, but he couldn’t help but be thankful for it now. Aunt Petunia had kept Dudley’s diet sheet taped to the fridge, listing all the low-fat, low-calorie foods he was allowed to have. The nurse had sent home pamphlets, too, that Aunt Petunia had half-heartedly perused – she kept insisting the entire time that the school was sadly mistaken, there was nothing wrong with her dear Diddykins – and Harry, bored to tears one afternoon, had looked through them as well. Before that summer, Harry'd had little cause to know or care what a calorie was, or how many of them were in which foods, but the information was proving useful now as he scribbled down everything from the list he could remember. When he had finished, he handed the paper to Dobby, who looked over it quickly.

“Oh, but this will be easy, sir,” Dobby exclaimed, practically jumping out of his seat in delight. “Hogwarts keeps all of these in its stores already….”

“Brilliant,” said Harry gratefully, pocketing his quill.

“Does Harry Potter want the elves to start tonight, sir?” Dobby asked, looking up at him eagerly.

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks, Dobby.” Harry smiled at him, and Dobby beamed, tears of happiness shining in his round, tennis-ball-sized eyes.

“Which things would Harry Potter like us to send up for him, sir?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry shrugged. “'Long as it’s off that list.”

Dobby nodded emphatically so that his bat-like ears flapped against his cheeks, and he folded up Harry’s list and placed it carefully in his pocket, patting it reverently. “Of course, sir, anything for Harry Potter....”

A wizened old elf shuffled past the table behind Dobby, and Harry looked over, a bit surprised to see that it was Kreacher; Harry had nearly forgotten he’d sent him to come work at Hogwarts after inheriting him. Another thought occurred to him then, born of the reminder of the exceptional capabilities of house-elves, and Harry nearly called him over, but he glanced quickly at Dobby, unsure. Dobby liked Harry very much, but he had no master, and he was an employee of Dumbledore’s – Harry did not truly know how far Dobby’s loyalty stretched in either direction, and he did not know if Dobby might feel the need to report what Harry intended to ask of Kreacher.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, Harry thanked Dobby again, who scurried off to start gathering Harry’s requested foods, and left the kitchens. After the door had closed behind him, Harry glanced left and right, making sure he was quite alone, and then called into thin air, “Kreacher!”

With a loud crack exactly like Dobby’s, Kreacher materialised out of nowhere right in front of Harry. The house-elf gave a low bow, his filthy loin cloth slung across his hips, and looked up at Harry with an expression of pure hatred and disgust. “Master called for Kreacher?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some instructions for you,” Harry told him, crossing his arms over his chest.

Kreacher’s ugly little face twisted into a grimace. “What is it Master would like Kreacher to do?”

“First,” Harry said, “I might tell some people I’ve come to the kitchens for a meal every once in a while. If anyone asks, you’re to tell them I have, no matter if I haven’t, got it?”

Kreacher nodded, his beady eyes narrowing.

“And second…I need you to get something for me.”

 

* * *

 

It was a nice feeling, Harry thought, walking down to dinner with Ron and Hermione without a terrible sense of dread for once.

His friends had been at him at as soon as he’d got back from the kitchens, but he had waved off Hermione’s concerns about what he might have written to Lupin, and informed the both of them that he’d been down to see Dobby, who had offered him tea and biscuits. Which was, strictly speaking, true. This had seemed to soothe them, and the quiet unease that had lingered between Harry and Ron all morning had all but evaporated by the time they had made their way into the grounds for their afternoon Quidditch practice on a field now blessedly free of any Death Eater insignias.

A pleasant rumble of chatter filled the Great Hall and Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved along the Gryffindor table, looking for empty seats; they found three together and as Harry sat down, to his relief and delight, little dishes popped silently into existence around his plate, some filled with strawberries and slices of apple and grapefruit, others with steamed broccoli or carrots. There was a large bowl of salad, peppered with cherry tomatoes and bits of cucumber. Ron and Hermione gaped.

“How did you do that?” Ron demanded as Harry picked up his fork and started scooping broccoli onto his plate.

Harry shrugged easily, adding some carrots. “I asked Dobby to send some stuff up for me when I went down to see him,” he said, and was surprised how refreshing it felt that it wasn’t even a lie.

“That’s allowed?”

“Apparently.”

Ron raised his eyebrows, impressed, but Hermione looked highly affronted. “You mean you’re giving those house-elves extra work? They’ve already got enough to manage, and they’re not even _paid_ – ”

“Please, they jump at the chance to do more work, they _like_ it,” Ron told her in the patient tone of someone instructing a small child as he helped himself to a healthy portion of shepherd’s pie. “And they don’t _want_ to be paid, they think it’s insulting – you would think you’d have got that by now considering you’re supposed to be the most brilliant student in this place…hey! I wonder if I could get them to send up puddings for every meal,” he added with a dreamy, far-off look in his eye.

Hermione had turned slightly pink, and she appeared to be torn between feeling offended, or pleased at Ron’s assertion of her brilliance.

“I don’t think you could,” Harry explained, saving Hermione from having to form a reply. “Dobby told me there was a student a while ago, some spoiled pure-blood prat who always wanted them to serve him pheasants and things – I reckon if you order something, it’s got to be just, you know…normal.”

Ron sighed disappointedly. “I suppose I could still ask for that raspberry jam, at least….”

Harry glanced up at the staff table as Ron trailed off, quite sure that someone had just been watching him, but none of the teachers were looking in his direction, and after a moment or two he returned his attention to the dishes in front of him.

Hermione was still frowning disapprovingly at their talk of giving the elves orders, but as she watched Harry tip some more strawberries onto his plate and begin to eat, her indignation seemed to melt away, and by the time dinner was over, though Harry pretended not to notice, both Ron and Hermione were beaming at his empty plate.

 

* * *

 

Upon their return to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione had her homework out and spread across two entire tables so quickly it might have qualified as a magic trick, and Ron shared an exasperated look with Harry before pulling up a chair beside her and digging out his own homework with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked in bewilderment, pausing in her search for extra rolls of parchment when Harry did not join them.

“I think I’m just going to – uh – go to bed,” he said, nodding his head toward the stairs.

“What, and miss all the fun?” said Ron, watching Hermione pull out a colour-coded revision sheet and eyeing it as though it had done him a great personal injustice. “If we’re lucky, we could be here till morning, eh?”

“As enjoyable as that sounds,” Harry said sarcastically as Hermione pursed her lips at Ron, “I’ll have to do it in the morning, I’m knackered – ”

“You won’t have time in the morning, we’ve got Transfiguration first thing, and you haven’t answered the questions about cross-species transformations, I know you haven’t,” Hermione insisted, gesturing at her own finished copy of the sheet McGonagall had given them.

This was, in fact, true, and Harry was keenly aware that indeed he probably would not have enough time next day, but he couldn’t bring himself to be too fussed about it, not with the alluring prospect of a real night’s sleep dangling before him, and he waved indifferently over his shoulder as he turned toward the stairs, Hermione muttering something about ‘reaping the consequences’ under her breath behind him.

Ginny sat cross-legged playing with Arnold on the rug by the fire and she looked up as he passed. “Good night, Harry,” she said pleasantly, herding Arnold around her legs away from the hearth.

“‘Night,” Harry mumbled, feigning a yawn to avoid looking at her properly, and sped up the boys' staircase.

Harry glanced about the room as he closed the door behind him, making sure it was empty, and made a beeline for his bed, slipping his hand underneath his pillow and feeling around. His hand closed around a small box, right where he’d told Kreacher to leave it, and he pulled out the container of sleeping tablets with a little thrill of victory. The package looked exactly as he remembered it; Aunt Petunia had once come back from the chemist’s with them when Harry and Dudley had been about six, though what she had to lose sleep over Harry could not have said, and they had lurked in the medicine cabinet half-used for years until they’d finally been thrown out.

Harry changed quickly and climbed onto his bed, pulling the hangings closed and putting up his usual Silencing charm before ripping the box open; a paper insert fell out onto his lap, and he unfolded it, scanning the tiny print. A small bubble of apprehension swelled in his gut as he read through the list of would-be side effects, but it did little to dissuade him; he had been operating on bursts of restless, interrupted sleep for months, and he was already far past the end of his rope. He had considered, once or twice, going to Madam Pomfrey out of sheer desperation, but that would have been impossible to do without it leading to questions that Harry did not particularly feel like answering. He might have easily instructed Kreacher to take any potions he needed from the hospital wing or the dungeon's stores, but that, too, would have led to suspicions, and with a house-elf’s rather useful ability to Apparate in and out of Hogwarts now at Harry’s disposal, this had all-around seemed the best option. A little niggle of guilt hovered at the back of his mind that he had not been able to pay the shop from which Kreacher had stolen the tablets, but the only money Harry had on hand was wizarding gold, and he didn’t expect a Muggle chemist would have much need for Galleons or Sickles.

Two full blister packs of tablets slid out as Harry upturned the box. He picked up the first one, popping a single tablet out of the plastic, and shoved the packs and the little paper back into the box before slipping the incriminating package under his pillow.

He stared down at the tablet in his hand – he marveled at how such a little thing could look so big – his heart hammering as though he was doing something much more treacherous than sitting in bed in his pyjamas. Thoughts of what his friends would say if they could see what he was doing attempted to break in, but he squashed them impatiently, and before he could change his mind, he popped the tablet into his mouth and tilted his head back, swallowing it dry.

He slid down under the covers and rolled over, dragging his blankets up to his neck. He tried his best to relax, to calm his mind, and his bone-deep exhaustion pulled at him like an anchor on a sinking boat, rolling black waves washing over him as he lay there…his eyes slowly closed and within minutes, he was asleep.


	8. Hours on Empty: Part 2

Harry slept like the dead.

Though he’d gone to bed no later than half past seven in the evening, he did not wake until nearly the same time next morning, his body stiff and aching slightly, and he knew immediately he had not moved an inch all night. He sat up slowly. His limbs felt as though they were tied down with weights; he stared with heavy lids at the sunlight seeping in under his bed curtains. The light swirled hypnotically the longer he looked at it. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his thoughts as slow and dull as if he were drugged. Which, he supposed with a slightly loopy smirk, he probably still was. Harry might have sat there forever, entranced by the strip of light, but he gradually became aware that his throat was very, very dry; he swallowed uncomfortably and commanded his sluggish arms to pull back the curtains with difficulty.

He was met with the sight of Ron, sitting up and yawning widely, his arms stretched high over his head. “‘Morning….” he told Harry groggily.

Harry swung his cement-filled legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, rubbing the sleep slowly out of his eyes. He let his arms drop heavily to his knees and stared at the pitcher of water on his bedside table, which appeared to be impossibly far away.

“You alright?” Ron asked as he, too, moved to perch on the edge of his own bed, scratching his head and yawning again. He watched, frowning slightly, as Harry struggled to pour himself a glass of water.

“Yeah,” Harry rasped after he’d taken a few sips, the water easing a cool trail all the way down to his stomach. “Think I slept too much,” he slurred, licking his lips. He snorted quietly in vague disbelief. _He’d slept…._

“Good,” Ron said with a resolute nod, and got up to search for his school robes.

 _Yes_ , thought Harry, and he squinted blurrily at his pillow as the other boys began to stir, _it_ was _good._

 

* * *

 

Harry followed Ron and Hermione down to breakfast, listening to them bicker about something he did not possess the concentration to follow properly; the sound of it bothered him less than usual, however, and he found himself perfectly content to walk behind them silently, staring about. Everything looked somewhat surreal, like a fuzzy, out-of-focus dream, and the constantly looming threat of dizziness he’d got used to lately hovered even closer, making it necessary for him to grasp firmly onto the railings every time they descended a flight of stairs.

As soon as Harry sat down next to Neville in the Great Hall, the same dishes he had requested the night before appeared in front of him, only the vegetables had been replaced with more fruit. Harry stared at them. A deep hunger surged to life in his belly, much stronger than his usual pangs, and his eyes wandered a bit guiltily to the other plates filled with bacon and eggs. Harry helped himself to a whole grapefruit, a handful of strawberries, several slices of apple, and, before he could talk himself out of it, a spoonful of scrambled eggs and a piece of bacon. He ate quietly, the sound of Ron and Hermione’s voices dulling to a drone in his ears, until Neville waved a hand in front of his eyes, asking anxiously if he was alright. Harry startled a bit, looking up to find the three of them watching him curiously.

“Fine,” he assured them, and went back to his plate, only to find that it was already empty, including the bacon and eggs. A squirming sense of shame spread all the way out to his fingers as his friends resumed their conversations; he hadn’t meant to cheat, really he hadn’t, but he was _so hungry._ He wondered distantly if it was the sleeping tablets making him feel so ravenous…he couldn’t remember if that had been listed as a side effect or not…he would have to check when he got back to his room….

Breakfast finished in a blur, Harry doing his best not to stare off into space again, and he heaved his heavier-than-normal bag over his shoulder and trailed listlessly after Ron and Hermione to the Transfiguration classroom for their first lesson.

Professor McGonagall strode up and down the rows of desks after they had all settled in, collecting homework. Harry sat silently when she came to him, having nothing to hand in, and as McGonagall stared down at him over the tops of her square spectacles, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, scrutinizing.

“No homework, Potter?”

Harry shook his head mutely, staring at a spot over her left shoulder, unable to meet her eyes. He wanted to apologise, but he did not know what to say, he had no excuse to offer – Harry braced for a reprimand, for points to be docked for his negligence, perhaps even for a detention…but McGonagall simply gave him one last look, the corners of her mouth turning downwards in the barest trace of a frown, and swept away to her desk. Harry and Ron stared after her in shocked disbelief. Never in living memory had Professor McGonagall neglected to punish someone for failing to complete her coursework.

Harry expected Hermione to fume at this inexplicable show of indulgence or leniency or whatever it was, but she was instead staring over at McGonagall with a thoughtful look on her face as she slowly pulled her copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ out of her schoolbag.

Transfiguration passed in much the same haze as the rest of the morning had done – Professor McGonagall paced slowly back and forth at the front of the classroom giving a complex lecture Harry could not even attempt to decipher, and his head drooped further into his hand as Hermione scribbled furious notes beside him. His lethargy lifted slightly towards the end of the hour, but that only made room for a low thrum of anxiety about his slip-up at breakfast to creep up under his skin, and he put his hands under the desk to scratch where Ron and Hermione would not see.

 

* * *

 

“What d’you reckon, McGonagall going soft in her old age?” said Ron as they left the classroom, elbowing Harry’s side as though congratulating him for winning some sort of contest.

“She’s not that old,” Hermione said automatically, but her voice lacked any real reproach. She still looked pensive and, Harry thought, a little relieved, though he might have been imagining it – his surroundings still did not seem fully real to him.

“I thought you’d be cross,” Harry told her. “She’s never let you off like that….”

“Yes, well, she’s never had the occasion, I’ve always handed in my homework, haven’t I?” Hermione said reprovingly, but her expression relaxed a bit as she looked at him. “Come on, we’ll be late for Potions if we don’t move….”

Hermione did not say anything further on the matter of Professor McGonagall’s behaviour, and Harry let the subject drop, reaching into his bag to pull out the Marauder’s Map instead. Hermione rolled her eyes at the sight of it, but Ron moved in closer to look over Harry’s shoulder, muttering, “What’s old ferret-face up to now?”

Since the whole Dark Mark fiasco, Ron had seemed a bit keener on keeping tabs on Malfoy, and Harry, glad to have company at last in his 'obsession,' as Hermione liked to call it, readily shifted the Map to give Ron a better view as he tapped the parchment with his wand and mumbled, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Harry and Ron bent over the Map as the little black lines and dots appeared, and it took each of them only a second to find Draco Malfoy. They looked up at each other at the same moment, then turned to see over their shoulders in unison. According to the Map, Malfoy was not thirty feet behind them, but it was impossible to see him among the sea of students thronging the corridors.

“He’s following us….” Harry murmured suspiciously.

“ _Of course_ , he’s following us,” said Hermione a little impatiently. “He’s going to Potions, isn’t he, we all are….”

But Harry could not accept this explanation: Malfoy had left the Transfiguration classroom well before they had, and as Harry continued to watch him on the Map, it seemed as though he was taking care to maintain that same thirty feet or so of distance behind him, Ron, and Hermione as they moved through the halls. Ron, like Harry, kept glancing back all the way to the dungeons. But Malfoy pretended to be searching through his bag every time they managed to catch him looking, and Harry tried to quell the disquiet that crept upon him as he warily considered any possible reason Malfoy could have for stalking the three of them through the castle like a slithering predator ready to spring.

 

* * *

 

Harry continued to keep an eye on Malfoy’s movements throughout the rest of the morning, and he spent so much time with his eyes boring into the back of that infuriating blond head of his in Potions that Hermione audibly sighed more than once and even Ron shot him a look of slight exasperation. But Harry continued to stare, as if he could somehow see through Malfoy’s thick skull to his brain, and see what it was he might be planning….

The weird, drugged-out state that Harry been stuck in since he’d woken up lifted almost completely by lunchtime. Regrettably, this only permitted him to feel even more uneasiness about Malfoy’s behaviour, not to mention a distinct resentful annoyance at Hermione’s refusal to take it seriously, and a keen awareness of the hunger pains that had not abated in the least since breakfast. He was in such a foul mood by midday that it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stick to his planned food at lunch and refrain from snapping at Lavender Brown to shut up when she giggled shrilly at a joke Seamus told her.

Dinner was much the same. Only it was made about five times worse by the fact that Romilda sat down two seats away from Harry, the barest tinge of purple in her cheeks the only sign of what been done to her – “Madam Pomfrey got Professor Slughorn to brew something up, it was a potion in my shower gel that did it, it was an easy antidote in the end….” she could be heard telling her friends – and in spite of Harry’s intense hunger, he suddenly felt the nasty urge to refuse to eat a single thing. It was only the memory of Ron’s disturbed expression at the sight of Harry’s weight loss that kept him in his seat, and he shoveled some mushrooms and peppers onto his plate with great reluctance.

Harry went to bed early again, despite having been assigned another mountain of homework for the week. In the privacy of his four-poster he re-examined the packaging of the tablets Kreacher had got him... _headache, dizziness, stomach pain, changes in appetite...._

Harry frowned. That did explain it, then. He sat there for a moment, turning the box over idly in his hands, debating... _was it really worth it?_ Bargaining a good night’s sleep for the risk of wanting to eat more than he should? But in the end the prospect of dreams full of screams and pain or, worse, dark broom closets, made the choice for him, and he quickly popped a second tablet out of its tray.

 

* * *

 

The following week fell into a pattern that Harry seemed to observe from the outside rather than participate in himself. Wake up. Slog through the morning. Rabbit food (Harry remembered wryly that that’s what Uncle Vernon had called it when Dudley had been sentenced to his diet). More rabbit food. Sometimes straying from that when his body managed to beat back his brain…guilt _(desperate, awful guilt)_ when he did stray, and he _scratched._ Endless piles of homework, and he tried, he _tried_ but he couldn’t _focus_. The days blurred together, and he needed sleep, and he took his tablets, and he was too tired. He was cold. He was frustrated and worried and hungry, _so hungr_ –

“Will you _please_ put that map away?”

Harry glanced up at Hermione in annoyance, though her tone when she badgered him about his preoccupation with Malfoy had shifted more towards pleading than disapproving the past few days.

“You never tell Ron to quit looking at it, do you, and he’s just as convinced as I am that Malfoy’s up to all this Junior Death Eater rubbish….” Harry pointed out, regretting that Ron was already down at dinner waiting for them; he could have used the backup. His eyes found the Slytherin’s dot again, which was positioned, predictably, not very far away from him and Hermione at the moment.

“No, I don’t,” Hermione said meaningfully, but she did not say anything else as they descended a narrow staircase.

Deciding not to even attempt to interpret that, Harry ignored her and kept his gaze trained on the Map – ever since Monday morning, Malfoy had been sticking to Harry, Ron, and Hermione like glue – well, this wasn’t exactly true. He’d been sticking to _Hermione_ like glue. Harry had checked the Map as often as he could between classes and meals, and, almost every time, Malfoy had been there, lurking somewhere behind them – except for when it was only Harry and Ron. Malfoy seemed to lose interest then. Sometimes Harry caught sight of him on the Map, loitering outside the library or a bathroom, like he was waiting for Hermione to come out. Harry’s insides writhed and seethed furiously at the thought, a venomous hatred pulsing in his brain, and he glanced over his shoulder again, catching a glimpse of Malfoy’s pale, pointed face through the group of fourth year Ravenclaws that stood between them.

Making up his mind on the spot, Harry decided that the time for caution had long since passed and he hastily refolded the Marauder’s Map and stuffed it back into his pocket.

“Got to go to the bathroom – you go on, I’ll see you in a minute,” he told Hermione quickly as they came around a corner, already turning away from her.

“Hurry up!” she called after him, and she disappeared down another staircase.

Harry doubled back to the corner of the corridor and leaned against the wall, doing his best to appear casual and thoroughly innocuous as the cluster of Ravenclaws walked past. A couple of the girls giggled when they saw him, which did nothing to improve Harry’s frazzled nerves, and he just barely stopped himself fixing them with a withering glare. A minute later, they had also climbed down the stairs, and then there was only one more set of footsteps making their way up the hallway.

Harry waited silently, barely breathing as he drew his wand.

Malfoy came around the corner and Harry sprang forward, seizing the front of Malfoy’s robes, ignored the outraged “HEY!” that echoed furiously through the halls, and pulled him roughly around to slam him up against the wall.

In the split second that Malfoy was frozen in surprise, Harry brought his wand up, jabbing it threateningly into the side of his neck. Malfoy immediately began struggling, clutching at Harry’s wrists as though the touch of the wand at his throat had released him from his shock. Malfoy’s nails bit into Harry’s flesh, and Harry let a low growl, yanking Malfoy away from the wall and slamming him back again…blood was pounding in his brain, a blinding rage surging up inside him, rushing up his throat, making his face burn and his fist close even more tightly around his wand….

“Get off of me!” Malfoy snarled, stray strands of his blond hair flying around his face as he plunged a hand into his robes and pulled out his own wand, pushing it sharply up underneath Harry’s chin, right over his jugular. But Harry did not release him, and they both stood there, breathing heavily, with their wands pressed against each other’s throats, glaring at one other with unadulterated hatred and disgust.

“Why have you been following her?” Harry demanded through clenched teeth, twisting Malfoy’s robes viciously in his fist.

Something like astonishment flickered in Malfoy’s grey eyes, and Harry felt a savage burst of satisfaction; Malfoy had not been aware that Harry knew exactly what he was doing. But Malfoy’s face contorted into an ugly grimace as he spat, _“Who?”_

“You know exactly who I mean! Hermione, you slimy little – ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, _Potter._ Why would I possibly want to follow that little Mudblood around?”

Harry’s vision nearly went blurry with rage as adrenaline coursed through his veins, his ability to keep from hexing Malfoy into oblivion hanging on by barely a thread. A sharp pain flared suddenly in Harry’s chest, and then his vision really did seem to be going blurry as a wave of dizziness overtook him.

“I know it was you, Malfoy, the graffiti, that Dark Mark,” Harry panted, trying desperately to hold himself together as another pain flared in the region of his heart. “You’re not going to get away with this, you’ll be chucked out for good…I know it was you,” he said again, pushing his neck even more firmly against Malfoy’s wand, half-wishing Malfoy would try something, would give Harry an excuse to fight him, to unleash all the anger and frustration and panic that had been simmering underneath the surface for so long.

But Malfoy shoved Harry away from him, and Harry’s grip broke easily as another swell of lightheadedness crashed over him. Malfoy straightened his robes with a few sharp tugs and ran a hand smoothly over his head, slicking his hair back into place as he smirked at Harry.

“Prove it,” he whispered.

Harry glared at him, his breath catching harshly, channeling the force of his outrage and loathing to keep himself on his feet. “You stay the hell away from Hermione, you understand me? You touch her and I swear I’ll – ”

“You'll what? It’s a free country,” said Malfoy, “And I don’t take orders from stinking half-bloods….” He looked Harry briefly up and down, his lip curling as he took in the sweat at Harry’s brow, his heaving chest, the hand shaking around his wand. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” he sneered. “Golden Boy of Gryffindor losing his nerve?”

Malfoy gave a derisive snort and set off down the hall, bumping Harry’s shoulder forcefully as he went. Harry wanted to turn and go after him, to call out a retort, to do something to wipe that _bloody_ smirk off his face, but it was all he could do to stagger unsteadily over to the wall as Malfoy disappeared around the corner.

Harry dropped more than sunk onto the floor, leaning heavily against the wall and gasping for breath, clutching at his chest, which was now bursting with pain. With sharp, jerky movements, Harry dug out the Invisibility Cloak and swung it over himself, cringing at the thought of anyone coming along to see Harry Potter sprawled out, sweating and trembling helplessly on the floor. The pain in his chest seemed to be suffocating him, and Harry wondered suddenly if he was having a heart attack. It was beating so fast in his ears… _what if he died, right here in this hallway?_

A hysterical thought popped wildly into his head, and he wondered if he shouldn’t take the Cloak off so no one would trip over his body –

But after a few minutes, the pain lessened, and then dissipated, and he could breathe again.

Harry pulled himself shakily to his feet, still trembling underneath his father's Invisibility Cloak. He stared at the spot of stone floor where he’d just been sitting, as though expecting some sort of dark apparition to rise up out of it and attack him.

Harry shook himself, rubbing his knuckles nervously against his hand, and set off quickly down the corridor, keenly aware that he was already very late for dinner, and that Ron and Hermione would be wondering where he was.

 

* * *

 

_A cool, slight breeze ruffled Harry’s hair as he walked along, the vast blue sky silent above him. His footsteps were muffled and uneven, and he looked down, discovering with pleasant surprise that he was walking upon clouds as white and fluffy as fresh marshmallows…well, of course. Why shouldn’t he be walking on clouds? Everyone did._

_Patterns swirled hypnotically up in the atmosphere, winding and curling like snakes, and Harry leapt gently off the surface of clouds and floated up to one of them with ease, thinking that it was really very pretty…he reached out his fingers, and touched it – the swirling thing broke open, and a murder of crows, each with six bulging eyes and four ravaged wings, burst out of it, flapping around him in a frenzy, attacking his face, his hands, pecking at his eyes, and Harry threw his arms over his face, curling into himself as the murder bore down upon him, driving him down through the clouds, and Harry was falling, falling fast…._

_The crows disappeared as suddenly as they’d come, and Harry looked around to find that he was standing in a dark cave, rosy pink firelight flickering sinisterly off the damp walls. He was naked. There were disembodied eyes, scarlet and slit-pupiled like a cat’s, staring at him from every dark corner, and he backed away, hitting a wall, out of which long, thorny vines grew in an instant, winding around his legs and arms, binding him against the clammy surface. Terror exploded in his stomach, and he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out...a school bell rang, loud and sharp, echoing around the cave, whose floor kept shifting and changing like quicksand, and a girl appeared in a puff of purple smoke right next to the pink fire, roasting squares of chocolate over the flames as though she’d been sat beside it all along. She smiled at Harry as the chocolate dripped into the fire, each drop transforming into a tiny Snitch as it fell, and then flying away before Harry could catch it…he strained at the vines holding him to the cave wall…._

_The girl laughed, an ugly screeching sound, and suddenly she was standing right in front of Harry, her dark hair swirling around her. She caressed his face with a hand that felt like sandpaper, and Harry knew that if she wanted to she could score the flesh right off his skull…._

_The vines holding him down disintegrated to ash as she pressed her body to his, but still he could not move. She kissed him then, a thick, bubbling liquid pouring into his open mouth, choking him – the girl stepped back and looked at Harry sadly._

_She spoke, and her voice echoed as though there were three of her speaking together. “I’m so glad you came to see me. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been eating rats to survive, you see….” She gestured over to a pile of little skeletons, and only their eyes remained, staring back at Harry blankly…._

_‘I’m so sorry,’ Harry wanted to say, and he wasn’t sure whether he meant it for the rats or the girl, but he suddenly found that he had no mouth, only a smooth stretch of skin below his nose, and he looked down at his own body to find that he was a skeleton, too, as if all his flesh had been melted away._

_“It’ll be okay,” the girl soothed. “You have me, now….” And Harry’s horrified gaze found her face, which was now grey and taut – she looked dead. Dead like the four corpses standing behind her with sunken expressions of accusation and hatred on their gaunt faces as they looked at Harry, blaming him, he knew, for what had become of them…._

_‘I’m sorry!’ Harry tried to tell them. ‘I’M SORRY!’ But he still did not have a mouth, and his body was fading away…the dark-haired girl stepped up to him again, whispering, “I can help you…” and moved into him, so that she became a part of him, and their bodies became one body, and Harry **screamed** , clawing at his bare bones –_

With an almighty wrench, Harry dragged himself out of sleep and into wakefulness, still screaming so loudly he thought his throat might tear, the taste of iron on his tongue. His body attempted to thrash, to bolt up, but it was paralysed, stuck to the sweaty sheets as though a giant mass were sitting on top of him, pinning him to the bed. His scream cut off abruptly with a choked, desperate whimper – his lungs were frozen in his chest, his brain starved for oxygen, and with an enormous push of willpower, Harry forced his lungs to fill, to expand, and he sucked in the deepest breath he’d ever taken in his life. Sweat poured off of him, his heart hammering fit to burst, and a sharp pain in his tongue told him he had bitten it in his sleep.

Panic pounded through him, still unable to move, and he stared, wide-eyed, up at the canopy of his four-poster, trying to get his brain to communicate with his muscles. It felt like he was Petrified – terror slammed his heart against ribs, and he choked on a sob. _Move,_ he snarled at his mind, _move, move, move, move, MOVE!_

His fingers twitched. His knees jerked. Slowly, the feeling returned, and he was able to drag himself up to rest against the headboard, panting heavily. He realised his face was wet with more than just sweat, and he thrust a hand jerkily back behind his pillow, seizing hold of his wand like a lifeline and clutching it to his chest.

“L-l-lumos,” he whispered, his voice breaking. He coughed and tried again. “Lumos!”

His bed filled with light, and amongst the shadows cast by his rumpled bedspread, he saw a smear of blood on his sheets. Harry stared at it. He repositioned his wand and raised his trembling hands to his eyes. The outsides of his wrists were torn open again.

The damage was not nearly as bad as it could have been, and a small part of Harry was grateful that he had not been able to move properly in his sleep – he could not have asked Ginny to heal him again. The look in her eyes if he did was enough to make him want to crawl straight into a hole to shrivel up and die.

Harry clenched his hand into a fist, feeling the congealed blood underneath his fingernails, and he threw back his covers, forcing his wooden legs over the side of the bed. He doused his wand and pulled back his hangings. He had to make it to the bathroom. He had to clean himself up, but he didn’t know if he could even stand….

Harry rose slowly, clutching at his bedpost for support – he could hardly feel his feet under him – the bathroom seemed miles away, and he tamped down the urge to give into despair. He focused every last particle of his brain on putting one foot in front of the other. He stumbled unevenly, barely making it to the bathroom doorway before he collapsed. His knees gave out and hit the floor with a sickening flash of pain and he bit down on a grunt, determined not to wake the others. Harry half-crawled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a shaking hand. He stared up at the sink, yearning for a drink of water, for a splash on his flushed, sweaty face, but he did not even have the energy to prop himself up against the wall, and he crumpled weakly onto the freezing floor, rolling over to stare at the underside of the counter, his heart thumping madly again from exertion.

The desire to call out for Ron like a child in the night rushed up inside him, and he felt traitorous tears prick at the corner of his eyes again as he lay there, prone and miserable. Harry curled up, like he had in his dream, and he pressed his eyes shut at the phantom sensation of gruesome, six-eyed crows pecking him all over, stabbing, hurting him.

Ever since he had started taking the sleeping tablets, he had slept more solidly, but almost every day he had woken up with vague memories of strange, eerie dreams that left him slightly on edge all morning. But tonight…tonight had been something else entirely. His nightmare had been so… _real._ Vivid and disturbing and unnervingly psychedelic, he had never had a dream quite like it. The image of his skeletal body intruded sharply, and he opened his eyes, looking down at himself just to make sure he was still all there. His hand twitched up to his mouth, feeling for his lips….

_Four corpses staring back at him through empty sockets…._

Harry shuddered, forcing his eyes shut again. He lay there for what felt like hours until some modicum of strength returned; he carefully placed his trembling palms against the floor and pushed himself up. He rested briefly against the sink before grasping the edge of the counter and hauling his shaking, shivery body to its feet. Determinedly avoiding looking at his reflection, Harry turned on the tap and stuck his hands under the stream, rubbing lightly at the dried blood. He winced at the sting, but when he was done they looked much better. Or he thought they did, anyway. He had left his glasses beside his bed. Harry splashed some water on his face, washing away the salty remains of the sweat and tears, and gulped down a few mouthfuls, feeling marginally better.

Breathing as deep and even as possible, Harry hobbled to the door and opened it, startled nearly out of his skin to find Dean waiting beside the door, squinting and sleep-mussed, on the other side.

“Harry,” Dean whispered. “I was just about to knock, you’ve been in here for – are you okay?” he asked suddenly, taking in Harry’s appearance. Harry could not see Dean’s expression clearly without his glasses, but there was a slight note of concern in his voice, and Harry thought he saw his eyes flick down to Harry’s wrists, which Harry shoved hurriedly behind his back.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered back. “Sorry, all yours.” He let Dean past him; Dean cast him another fleeting look and closed the door.

Harry dragged himself back over to his bed and dropped onto it wearily, his brain teeming with uncomfortable, unwanted thoughts. Abruptly, he shoved a hand under his pillow, pulled out the package of sleeping tablets, and threw them into the drawer of his bedside table, closing it firmly.

Well, that was the end of that, Harry sighed to himself.

Tonight had been ten times worse than any of his normal nightmares, and if he was being honest with himself he was a little relieved to have an excuse to stop; the dreamlike numbness that had coloured his whole week had been, he had to admit, nice in a way. But it certainly wasn’t doing him any favours as far as his schoolwork situation went, which was now beyond desperate. He was certain he was in danger of failing about half his classes at this point. However, without a doubt the worst part had been all the extra food he had been unable to stop himself from consuming. Not to mention the fact that he’d felt so drowsy and slow that he hadn’t managed to drag himself out of bed _once_ for a morning run…a restless hum of anxiety pulsated just underneath his skin….

Dean came out of the bathroom and got back into bed. Ron muttered something in his sleep that sounded like ‘can’t go to the dance, got to help take these flowers to the zoo, I’m the manager’ and Harry allowed himself a small grin. He turned over and stared at Ron’s raised silhouette, thinking.

He’d just have to be a bit stricter with himself.

That was the safe thing. And the only way to make up for this last week – no more options or choices or leeway, he just had to grit his teeth and _do it_. Something subsided in him at the thought, like a monstrous serpent being lulled back into a doze, and Harry reached eagerly over to his alarm clock, setting it early enough for his run. After a second’s thought, he pushed it back another half hour. He’d need time before breakfast to go down to the kitchens and tell the house-elves about the adjustments that needed to be made.

Harry buried his face in his pillow, thoroughly exhausted, and closed his eyes – the vivid, too-real images of his dream threatened to overwhelm him, and once or twice his eyes snapped open, expecting to see dozens of scarlet eyes staring at him from the shadows. Eventually, the sound of Ron’s quiet snores and the promise of much more manageable days on the horizon eased him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

A storm was raging outside the window when Harry’s alarm went off, testing his resolve to follow through with the plan he’d outlined for himself, and he momentarily let his eyes slip closed again, sinking back into his mattress, before he sat up with a jerk, jumping out of bed as suddenly as if he’d been poked with a cattle prod.

 _No choice, you’ve got to go, you said you’d go,_ Harry told himself firmly, and he shoved his glasses sleepily onto his face, taking comfort once again in the idea of a decisive, clear-cut routine, even as a flash of lightning cracked apart the sky outside the dormitory, followed by a low, ominous roll of thunder.

He had to stop by the kitchens first anyway, and the storm might have blown itself out by then. Gathering up his things, Harry left the dormitory, closing the door quietly behind him, and ran through his list of meals in his head, over and over again like a recitation, all the way down to the kitchens so that he wouldn’t forget.

 

* * *

 

Ron and Hermione were not happy with him.

At all.

Nor was Ginny, for that matter, who had taken to sitting right next to Harry at meals whenever Dean was not with her.

None of them had actually said anything outright, yet, but he did not know how long that was going to last – their pointed looks from his plate, to his set jaw, and back again spoke volumes. As did the way they kept pushing dishes of food towards him, though, true to his promise to himself, he had so far wordlessly refused to touch any of it.

He had to follow The Rules, and The Rules told him exactly what he was allowed to have:

_Breakfast: half a bowl of cornflakes with milk, or one grapefruit._

_Lunch: an apple, a salad with tomato, and broth._

_Dinner: Tomatoes, broccoli, and carrots, one cup each._

_No snacks. End of._

_Water._

_Tea. No sugar, no cream._

Any more than that, and it was an extra lap around the Quidditch pitch. Even though sneaking out was a bit trickier these days – there were now security trolls posted outside all the secret passages during the night in addition to the rotation of Aurors guarding the front doors.

But this had not stopped him in the end – Harry knew how to get by trolls, after all.

Perhaps Ron, Ginny, and Hermione sensed that attempting to reason Harry into eating more would be ineffective (which, Harry thought with a fierce twinge of self-satisfaction, it would be), or perhaps it was the fact that Harry had now secretly started wearing two jumpers under his robes that eased their worry enough for them to refrain from commenting on his stringent eating habits. Harry knew he had lost several more pounds, and something told him that unless he kept it from showing, he was not going to like the consequences.

The tension between all four of them was palpable. Harry, who had already been trying to avoid too much contact with Ginny, was now doing everything in his power to make sure they did not run into each other in the halls or the common room, made more than a little difficult by the fact that Ginny was having none of it. She made an effort to engage him in conversation, even when he did nothing but mumble lame responses at her, and she continued to wave or smile at him when they saw each other outside of meals, even if he pretended he did not see it. She insisted on treating him normally, even as he was trying his best to pull away from her, and it was truly, inexpressibly maddening.

Ron and Hermione were taking much the same tack.

Even though neither of them were directly trying to address Harry’s behaviour at mealtimes anymore, Hermione always seemed to attempt to bring the subject of food up organically. She would start conversations about the new line of sweets Honeydukes had come out with, or the best Christmas dinners they had ever had, or an interesting book of wizarding recipes she had found in the library. Harry largely ignored these attempts, partly because he knew exactly what she was trying to do, and partly because he had tried to warn her to watch out for Malfoy, that he was tailing her for some as yet unknown nefarious reason, and she had told him that he was being ridiculous, a transgression for which Harry had yet to forgive her.

Harry had told neither Hermione nor Ron about his confrontation with Malfoy, and he did not think it to be a wise idea at this point, for Ron, despite hating and suspecting Malfoy quite as much as Harry did, seemed to have taken it into this head to appoint himself Harry’s keeper.

Every time Harry tried to disappear to his bed hours early, or go to the library by himself, Ron provided some excuse for Harry to stay, or be accompanied, as if he was of the opinion that Harry was spending too much time alone. An opinion Harry might have shared, if only Ron were acting a bit more like himself. As it was, Ron had become almost…Hermione-ish, expressing the concern that Harry was putting off too many homework assignments, and teaming up with Hermione to make a weekly schedule for Harry to follow so he did not fall too far behind. Harry privately and grudgingly agreed that Ron perhaps had a point, but it did not stop him missing his best mate and how things had been only weeks ago, before everything had got so…complicated.

 

* * *

 

Harry let out a low sigh, tapping his quill rhythmically against the side of the table.

He had decided to try to work out a response to Lupin – the man had sent another letter full of thinly-veiled worry, apparently having dismissed Harry’s claims that all was well – taking the opportunity to do it while Ron and Hermione had been called away to a Prefects’ meeting. But he could not think at all what to say. He stared dejectedly across the common room, watching a couple of third years have a riotous belching contest, empty Butterbeer bottles strewn about the floor around them…Harry wondered distantly if there was an acceptable way to say _‘I really don’t want to talk about Sirius, or anything else, thanks, but if you would keep sending letters anyway, that’d be great because it helps’_ but somehow he didn’t think so….

The portrait hole opened and Ginny clambered through. Quickly averting his eyes, Harry focused on the letter before him and prayed that she would not stop to talk to him. As usual, however, the great cosmic forces of the universe did not see fit to take what he wanted into account, and Ginny came over, falling into the seat across from him and plunking down a plate of chicken and potatoes. “Hey. What’re you working on?” she asked him.

“Letter,” Harry grunted, still staring at the parchment.

“To whom?”

“Lupin.”

“Oh, I miss him,” Ginny said fondly, and Harry could hear the small smile in her voice. “I wish he could have stayed on as Defence teacher, he was a right sight better than _Snape._ " She said Snape's name like a curse word, and Harry suffered a twinge of endearment. "Anyway, I brought you some dinner – roast chicken. Your fa-a-avourite!” She said in a sing-song voice, nudging the plate a bit closer to him.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” he said quietly, his eyes flickering up ever-so-briefly to meet hers before looking back down quickly as though he’d been burned.

“You’re not, huh?” Her tone was neutral enough, but there was the faintest undercurrent of a challenge.

“I already ate my dinner.”

“You didn’t _have_ dinner, Harry. Or lunch.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and Harry knew that if he were to look up he would see that hard, blazing look in her eye again.

“Just because I wasn’t in the Hall doesn’t mean I didn’t eat anything,” Harry said coolly, brushing the feathered tip of his quill across his fingers. “I went down to the kitchens.” He turned his head to watch the third years with the Butterbeer again to avoid the temptation to look at Ginny. He could feel her eyes boring into the side of his head.

They sat there together in silence for a moment.

“Damn it, Harry….” said Ginny, so quietly it was almost a whisper, and it sounded so unguarded that his heart twisted with guilt.

Just then Dean came down the boys’ stairs and spotted Ginny. “Ready to go?” he asked her when he had crossed over to them, and Harry had never thought he’d be so glad to have Dean interrupt them.

“Yeah, let’s go for a walk, we can go by the greenhouses. I’ve been dying to see Professor Sprout’s new Flame Flowers – Neville told me about them,” Ginny said, giving Harry one last glance. She stood and heaved her bag over her shoulder.

“Flame Flowers?” Dean asked curiously. “What do they do?”

“They don’t _do_ anything,” Ginny explained. “They’re non-magical, they’re just nice to look at.”

“Well that’s a bit boring,” Dean complained, and Harry felt a stab of annoyance, his eyes trained on his paper again. _Was it so difficult to just go see some stupid flowers with her?_

The two of them turned to go, and Ginny added loudly, “Maybe we can stop by the kitchens on the way. I’m quite sure the poor house-elves haven’t had much company lately….” And she disappeared through the portrait hole hand-in-hand with Dean.

Harry tried to focus on the letter before him but had to give it up as a bad job. He twirled his quill in his hands and looked sideways at the plate of chicken. He supposed, really, that it wouldn’t be _so_ bad to have some – in spite of what he’d told Ginny, he hadn’t had anything since his grapefruit that morning, which meant he had some calories to spare. He was a bit hungry…and Ginny had taken the trouble to bring it up for him….

 _So?_ said a nasty little voice in the back of his head. _She left you to go off with Dean…._

Besides, what was it to him if he didn’t get lunch or dinner – he had gone far longer with less at the Dursleys’, and he didn’t really like to eat meat anymore anyway. Rolling up the nearly-blank parchment with a few sharp movements, Harry snatched up his quill and headed for the staircase, but his foot had hardly touched the first step when someone called his name. He turned to see Ron and Hermione coming in through the portrait hole.

“How was the meeting?” Harry asked them after they’d fought their way through the sea of people returning from dinner.

“It was great – ”

“Yeah, a great big load of sh – ”

Hermione cut him off with a sound like an angry cat, nodding pointedly at the first years sitting within hearing distance, and Harry smirked.

Ron shook his head bitterly. “Why have we got to sit there for half an hour and talk about the Hallowe’en decorations the school’s going to put up? I mean, call me in two weeks’ time when they actually need putting up and until then….” He snapped his fingers as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him. “You know, I bet they’re concerned we wouldn’t be able to take all the suspense,” he nodded sagely.

Hermione mouth twitched in a smile, and she turned back to Harry. “Listen, Ron and I were talking, let’s go down to Hagrid’s, we haven’t been in ages….”

“Tonight?” Harry blinked.

“Yes, why not, we have some time before curfew – I saw him at lunch and he threated to sic Fang on us if we didn't come down to see him soon,” she said, clucking her tongue. This was, after all, not much of a threat as Fang was about as harmless as a newborn bunny.

“It’s only just over an hour till I’ve got to be at Dumbledore’s office,” Harry reminded her with a stab of regret. As eager and anxious as he was to begin his second lesson with Dumbledore, the thought of seeing Hagrid loosened the ever-present knot in his chest ever so slightly.

Ron shrugged. “We don’t have to stay for long. C’mon, it’ll do us all some good….”

“Yeah, alright,” Harry conceded, and Ron and Hermione beamed.

They dashed upstairs to get their cloaks and ten minutes later they were striding down the sloping lawn in the crisp autumn air towards Hagrid’s hut, where they could already see lights in the windows as dusk faded to darkness around them. A gentle breeze blew up from across the lake, carrying the faint sound of crickets and the hoot of an owl. For a second, Harry felt almost completely at peace with the world, and some of the worries that had been wrapped around his heart like a straitjacket fell away.

Fang’s booming barks sounded from within Hagrid’s hut as they approached, and they heard Hagrid’s voice attempting to quiet him. Hermione made a nervous little noise behind Harry, and he looked round to see her staring warily at Buckbeak, who was secured to a post just outside the front door. Ron caught Harry’s eye and rolled his own, and Harry patted Hermione’s arm lightly, fighting back a grin as they climbed Hagrid’s front stairs. Harry raised his fist to knock, but before he could, the door swung open and Hagrid’s massive frame filled the threshold, Fang jumping at his back.

“Who’s tha’ – ? Oh, it’s you three,” he boomed cheerfully, smiling down at them, and he stood back to let them past. “Come in, come in – no, _down,_ Fang – finally remembered me, have yeh?” He chuckled, but Harry glanced up at him, frowning, as they all removed their cloaks and sat down at the scrubbed wooden table, Fang bounding over at once to lay his head upon Harry’s knee – he thought he had seen Hagrid’s face fall for a split second after he’d opened the door.

“What have yeh lot bin up to, then?” Hagrid asked them, his back turned towards them as he rummaged about in the cupboards and started hot water going for tea.

“We’ve been terribly busy,” Hermione told him, looking slightly harassed. “There’s so much to learn this year, I don’t know how we’ll ever get through it all….”

“Agh, yeh’ll get through it jus’ fine, always do, don’ yeh? Brains like yers?” he said, bringing over a tray laden with three enormous mugs, a cup the size of a small bucket, a teapot, and plate of rock cakes. “All three o’ yeh,” he added gruffly, winking at Harry and Ron. Hagrid poured out the tea and passed a steaming mug to each of them. Harry wrapped his hands around his gratefully, soaking up the warmth.

“I’m sorry we didn’t carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, Hagrid,” Harry blurted out, and he meant it. None of the other sixth years had signed up, either, and Harry couldn't help but feel guilty. “We wanted to. We really did, it’s just – ” He glanced at Ron and Hermione for help, but they merely grimaced. Hagrid, however, waved him off.

“Never mind, knew yeh probably wouldn’t be able ter, in the end,” Hagrid smiled, though a bit sadly. “‘Sides now I can spend a bit more time with Grawpy, he’s learnt nine more words – nine! An’ Dumbledore’s got ‘im all set up with a nice big cave in the mountains, now – good thing, too, he was always scarin’ the unicorns an’ the Thestrals right outta their wits on account of rippin’ up all those trees when he was livin’ in the Forest, poor things….”

“Well, that’s – er – good,” Hermione offered. “And you are being careful, Hagrid, aren’t you, I mean, you are being _safe_ ….”

“O’ course I’m _safe_ , Grawpy wouldn’ hurt a fly, least not on purpose anyways, he’s too sweet,” said Hagrid, taking several big gulps from his massive cup.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione glanced at each other and looked away very quickly; _‘sweet’_ was the very last thing any of them would have chosen to call Hagrid’s little brother, who had, on the last occasion Harry and Hermione had met him, terrorised an entire group of angry centaurs into fleeing for their very lives. Hermione coughed and changed the subject to the decorations going up for Hallowe’en (“I thought we’d decided it was too early to be talking about this,” Ron muttered to Harry out of the corner of his mouth) and Hagrid spent the next fifteen minutes proudly informing them on the status of the giant pumpkins he was growing for the Great Hall in the vegetable patch behind his house.

There was a blazing fire going in the hearth, and the heavy weight of Fang’s head on Harry’s knee was a soothing comfort – he sipped at his tea, the mug still warm under his fingers, and listened to Hagrid talk as he sank into a comfortable drowsiness.

“So, how’s yer Quidditch practice comin’?” asked Hagrid, and Harry sat up a bit straighter, blinking.

“Great,” said Ron, attempting to take a bite of rock cake then setting it gingerly back down on the table as he massaged his jaw. “The Cup’s got Gryffindor’s name on for sure, really good team this year, and Harry’s a brilliant captain – ”

“Of course he is,” Hermione said staunchly, and Harry could not help grinning at both of them.

“When’s yer first match?”

“Six weeks,” Harry told him. “Slytherin.”

“And yer up for it, are yeh?” Hagrid asked, eyeing Harry with the same troubled look in his eyes he’d had when he had first opened the door and clapped eyes on the three of them.

“Yeah,” said Harry, taken aback. “Why?”

“Dunno,” Hagrid said, turning his cup in hands, still surveying Harry’s face with a deep frown. “Yer lookin’ a bit pale, is all. Thinner, too, I reckon. Have yeh been ill or summat?”

“No,” said Harry, a bit defiantly, and he looked to Ron and Hermione to confirm this, but they were both staring back at him steadily with expressions that said quite plainly that they agreed with Hagrid. Hermione’s jaw wiggled slightly, as though debating whether or not to say what she was thinking, and a spill of hot anger tinged with betrayal seemed to fill him up all the way to his throat: _Was this why they’d asked him to come? So they could recruit Hagrid to their campaign to make Harry do what they wanted?_

Harry opened his mouth, but as soon as he did, Hermione seemed to come to a decision and she said, very quickly but deliberately:

“It’s because he won’t eat.”

Hagrid’s cup stilled in his hands. There was a heavy silence for a second, in which Harry fixed Hermione with his fiercest glare. Her lip trembled slightly, but she crossed her arms and did not look away. Fang whined at Harry’s knee.

“Whadda yeh mean he’s not eatin’?” Hagrid said in a low voice, narrowing his eyes at Ron and Hermione as though wondering if had understood correctly. But before either of them could answer, he rounded immediately on Harry, his expression ominous. _“What do they mean yer not eatin’!”_

Fang scuttled off to hide under Hagrid’s bed, and Harry couldn’t help but wince under the force of Hagrid’s indignation. He sat there with the three of them watching him, feeling mutinous, and stared at a barrel of giant grubs in the corner, grinding his teeth together. He wrenched his jaw open and said shortly, “I eat.”

Ron snorted forcefully. “Barely.”

“I do – ”

“You _were._ Well, sort of,” Hermione said, and though Harry was not looking at her, he could hear the threat of tears in her voice. “And I thought…but now it’s, it’s practically _nothing_ , Harry – ”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Harry ground out, his temper rising, and he tightened his hands around his mug in an effort to contain himself.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Hagrid growled. The cup in his hands groaned as he squeezed it, threatening to shatter, and he let go of it quickly. Hagrid sighed heavily, getting control of himself, and brushed one of his dustbin-lid-sized hands through his wild hair in agitation. “I know that yeh – yeh’ve had a hard time of it lately, but yeh can’t just - just _give up,_ Harry…yeh gotta take care o’ yerself – ”

Harry stared so hard at the barrel of grubs that everything began to blur together. He felt like screaming at them all, he could feel himself shaking with suppressed anger. _They were not being fair, they didn’t get it. He wasn’t giving up. He was **trying**. He was trying so hard…they could not know, any of them, how much it was costing him to keep himself together…._

“I’ve got to go meet Dumbledore,” Harry said, fighting to keep his voice even, and stood automatically, refusing to look at Hagrid’s face – he did not want to see the worry there, or acknowledge that the guilt of disappointing Hagrid might even be enough to make him stay.

“That’s not for half an hour,” Ron insisted. “Mate, c’mon – ”

Harry grabbed his cloak and threw it around his shoulders. “Gives you lot more time to talk about me then, doesn't it?” he snapped, though his voice caught on the last word, rather ruining the effect. He turned around and strode towards the door.

“I'm tryin’ ter talk _to_ yeh, if yeh’d just sit down fer a minute! Harry, come here – ” Hagrid called after him, his voice cutting off abruptly as Harry slammed the door behind him, breathing heavily. He took off towards the castle, shoving down a mixture of relief and hurt when Ron and Hermione did not follow him. _Good_ , he thought viciously, _stay there and fill him in, leave me alone…_.He could not believe the two of them, using Hagrid against him like that…and now Hagrid knew, and Harry had to avoid him, too, and he didn’t _want to do that._

Harry fumed all the way back to the castle and up to the seventh floor, coming to a halt in front of the gargoyle that stood sentry outside Dumbledore’s study.

Ron had been right, of course; it was a while yet before he was supposed to present himself for his lesson, and he stood staring at the gargoyle, doing his best to master his temper and rubbing irritatedly at his wrists over his robes, trying not to scratch. After a few minutes, feeling jumpy and restless and desperately wanting something else to think about, Harry gave the gargoyle the password and stepped onto the spiral staircase that carried him up like an escalator to stand in front of the gleaming oak door of the headmaster’s office, hoping that Dumbledore would not object to him showing up a little early.

Harry knocked a bit harder than he meant to, and he heard Dumbledore’s voice from within call “Enter.”

Dumbledore was standing in front of one of his office’s many shelves, a very large book open in his hands, and he looked up, his silver eyebrows rising in faint surprise as Harry entered. “Harry! Gracious me, is it eight o’ clock already?”

“Er – no, I’m sorry, sir, I know I’m early. I – I can come back….” said Harry, unsure, his hand still on the doorknob.

“It is no matter, Harry, indeed a pleasant surprise, come in,” Dumbledore smiled kindly, and Harry stepped away from the door. As he moved further into the room, Dumbledore lowered his book, peering more closely at him. Harry supposed something of his anger and resentment must still be showing on his face, for a crease appeared between Dumbledore’s eyebrows, and he closed the book entirely and set it down on an empty corner of his desk.

“What has happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Harry said at once. His heart seemed to be beating somewhere in the region of his throat. He realised abruptly that he was trembling, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“What has upset you?”

“I’m not upset.”

“Harry….” Dumbledore chided gently, his expression stern.

Harry shook his head, averting his gaze from the headmaster’s penetrating scrutiny. “It’s…I had a row with Ron and Hermione, it was nothing….”

Dumbledore paused. Harry knew he was still watching him. “That is understandable,” he said softly. “I would imagine that their perception of things differs a great deal from yours, at the moment.”

Harry frowned. He looked back to Dumbledore in confusion, but before Harry could ask what he had meant by this, a voice issued from one of the portraits above their heads.

“I have just spoken with Lourdes,” said the painting of Sirius’s great-great-grandfather, Phineas Nigellus, as he sidled back into his frame. “Hanson would like you to know that he’s available on the – ”

“Yes, thank you, Phineas,” Dumbledore said repressively, cutting him off, and Phineas looked round in surprise.

 _“Ah,”_ he said, spotting Harry. “Yes, of course. We shall discuss the matter later, Headmaster….” And he settled into his painted armchair without another word, staring down his nose at Harry with unusual interest as though he were examining a strange new specimen.

Dumbledore circled his desk, sitting down, and gestured for Harry to do the same. “I am truly sorry to hear you have been arguing with your friends. It happens even in the closest of relationships, I’m afraid –  I find it usually works best, under such circumstances, to sincerely listen to each other’s concerns.” His chin lowered a fraction of an inch, and he studied Harry over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. “Have you been confiding in them?”

Harry fidgeted in his seat. “Sir?”

“You asked me, I believe, after our first lesson together if you would be allowed to tell Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger everything I had told you – have you discussed it with them?”

“I….” Harry recalled, dimly, the conversation in which Ron and Hermione had interrogated him about his time spent in Dumbledore’s study, and how he had balked at the thought of discussing Merope and Tom Riddle and the circumstances surrounding their union and the subsequent birth of their child…. “Not really,” he said finally.

The Pensieve sat on the desk between them, throwing little specks of silvery light onto the surrounding portraits and ceiling. Harry stared at it, wishing that the headmaster would just get down to business and start their lesson so he could focus on something besides the uncomfortable buzz pricking under his skin. Dumbledore lowered his head another inch, trying to catch Harry’s eye, and Harry unwillingly met his gaze.

“As I said before, you need your friends, Harry. Keeping secrets from them will only make things more difficult for you, and for them,” said Dumbledore shrewdly, and Harry got the distinct impression that he was not only talking of passing on the matters of these lessons. He wondered, again, what Dumbledore had meant by Ron and Hermione’s perceptions differing from his own, but Dumbledore was already standing, indicating the Pensieve on the desk, and after a brief review of what they had covered previously and an introduction to where they were headed next, Harry was plunging face first into the cool surface of the contents of the Pensieve and falling down through darkness into Dumbledore’s memory of a boy Voldemort.

 

* * *

 

Quite a while later, after Harry and Dumbledore had emerged from their viewing of a shabby little London orphanage run by a Mrs. Cole and the calculating, disquieting version of a young Tom Riddle who had spent his childhood there tormenting the other children, they sat with the desk between them again and discussed the boy-Riddle’s tendency towards secrecy and domination, and his odd, magpie-like habit of trophy-collecting.

The sky outside the window had now grown dark and starless, and Fawkes was dozing softly behind the door with his head under his wing.

“And now, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I think it is time for bed. But firstly, I would like to ask you something.”

Harry, who had made to stand up, sank back into his chair and waited, apprehensive.

Dumbledore considered him for a moment, and Harry rather thought that the usual twinkle in the piercing blue eyes looked just a bit dimmer. Dumbledore pressed the tips of his long fingers together. “I want to know,” he said gravely, “if there is anything you would like to tell me.”

Harry remembered Dumbledore asking him much the same thing in second year, when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and people had been getting Petrified left, right, and centre, and Harry had been so worried that he might actually somehow be the heir of Slytherin....

Harry thought, now, about his growing dread about Malfoy and what he was doing following Hermione around. He thought about the broken skin on his wrists. About the empty ache in his belly, and the sleeping tablets in his bedside table. He thought about how he was just the tiniest bit nervous to leave Dumbledore’s office when they were done here, because last time there had been someone waiting for him…he thought about the extra layer of Mrs. Weasley’s jumpers he was wearing at that very moment, to protect himself from the cold, and from suspicion. He thought about how very, very tired he was.

“No, sir,” Harry said in a flat voice, looking into Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes. “I can’t think of anything.”

In the corner, Fawkes let out a low, soft, musical cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes I did use the "What has happened to you?" exchange between Harry and Dumbledore from HBP, because I've always loved that moment, and it is so fitting and perfect for the point they are at here.


	9. Even If It Hurts

“Oh, come _on_.”

Harry ignored this and continued slowly down the aisle of bookshelves, his fingers tracing lightly against the worn spines as he feigned interest in a title or two.

Hermione trailed behind him, undeterred.

“I’ve already told you, I'm sorry….” she said a little impatiently.

“Are you?” Harry asked, squatting down to peruse the bottom row. He slipped a volume from the shelf and frowned down at it. “That’s not what you said yesterday.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset,” she conceded. She stopped next to him, and Harry glanced at her shoes, her presence looming over him. “But I’m not sorry I said something to Hagrid, I won’t apologise for that.”

Harry shoved the book back onto its shelf and straightened up to look slightly downward at her. It still hadn’t stopped surprising him that he was taller than she was, now. “You didn’t just say it by accident,” he objected, “you two took me down there on purpose to…to ambush me, or something – ”

“We _didn’t!”_ she insisted, looking highly affronted. She fixed her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. “We wanted to see him, and I thought you would too – Hagrid’s the one who brought it up, if you care to remember, and I wasn't going to just sit there and lie to him.”

Harry turned and stalked away from her, shaking his head, and Hermione followed mulishly, making a sound of displeasure behind him. She caught up and put a hand on his shoulder. Harry bristled and spun back around, leveling her with a scowl.

“Hermione, has it occurred to you that I came down here so you _wouldn’t_ talk to me?” he snapped, a little too loudly, for Madam Pince the librarian appeared seemingly out of nowhere, her papery, vulture-like countenance peering between a gap in the books from the next aisle over. She shushed them fiercely before disappearing as she re-shelved a pile of old tomes into the gap where her face had been.

Hermione lowered her voice. “I’d worked that much out,” she muttered, heavy with sarcasm. “Some people say I’m rather brilliant, you know – but you’ve practically been avoiding us for two days, and I’m tired of it.”

“If you’re so tired of it, then why not stop following me?” Harry whispered, his temper rising.

She stamped her foot. “You’re impossible!” she hissed at him furiously.

“I do try,” Harry said, his lips quirking up in the farce of a smirk.

Hermione's brow furrowed in irritation. “Yes, my patience,” she shot back, swiping loose strands of her frizzy hair behind her ears.

The bell rang a second later, interrupting the beginnings of what was sure to have been a magnificent glowering match between the two of them, and Hermione huffed, crossing her arms.

“Transfiguration,” she said simply. She nodded her head towards the exit. “Are you coming or not?”

 _Not,_ Harry was sorely tempted to say. He couldn’t remember for the life of him if had completed his essay on the characteristics of Animagi. He supposed, however, that there were worse ways to die than by McGonagall’s wrath.

Not that he could think of any at the moment.

Sighing, Harry spared Hermione one last look of annoyance and strode past her, leading the way back out of the library.

 

* * *

 

 _He had not completed his essay,_ Harry remembered drearily as he dropped into the seat next to Ron. Professor McGonagall came by moments later, hand outstretched to accept their homework, and Harry handed in his half-finished paper with a slightly resigned sense of certain doom.

Ron nudged Harry’s elbow as McGonagall returned to the front of the classroom, but Harry pretended not to have noticed, opening his textbook and squinting up at the blackboard to see which chapter they were supposed to be covering.

“Oi,” Ron tried again. “You ever finish?”

Harry glanced at him, shaking his head curtly.

Ron grimaced. “Bad luck. You should’ve told me, I’d’ve let you copy mine – ”

He broke off as Hermione kicked the leg of his chair, and he swung towards her, throwing her a dirty look. The two of them immediately descended into a near-silent but energetic round of bickering, until Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and the class quieted while she reviewed the structure of their lesson for the day.

Ron tried again to get Harry’s attention, but Harry ignored him, watching instead as McGonagall took up her chalk and began to draw complex diagrams on the board for them to copy down – he didn’t know whether to believe Hermione’s claim that dragging him down to Hagrid’s hadn’t been some sort of plan between the two of them, but Ron had helped to try to corner him in the end, and Harry was not quite sure he was ready to let it go.

Ron whispered his name a few more times before McGonagall heard.

“Do you have a theory to add to the fifth law of human transfiguration, Mr. Weasley?” she asked in a clipped voice. “Or perhaps something more important to say?”

The tips of Ron’s ears went red as several students snickered.

“No, Professor,” he said quickly.

“I thought not.” She turned back to the diagrams.

Ron glanced up at her again and then hunched over the table, scribbling something onto a scrap of parchment. He slid it over to Harry’s side of the desk, and Harry looked down at it, grinning faintly in spite of himself.

Hangman.

They hadn’t played a round to pass the time in class since Umbridge – it felt like more than a lifetime ago….

He scrawled a guess and slid it back over.

They repeated this several more times, ignoring Hermione’s quiet sighs of exasperation, until half a stick figure was hanging from its noose and Ron pushed the paper back over to Harry.

_‘Okay, 3 letters’_

Harry jotted down three more guesses and Ron took it back, filling in the spaces and giving Harry the thumbs up.

When the paper returned, it read:

W H Y  A R E  Y O U  B E I N G  A  G I T ?

His shoulders slumping, Harry rolled his eyes and crumpled up the piece of paper, lobbing it back at Ron and hitting him square between the eyes. He pulled his textbook closer and bent over it, plopping his chin into his hand; Ron snorted quietly. Harry shot him a glare, but Ron just shrugged, barely trying to hide his grin as he trained his eyes on his own textbook.

Harry yawned his way through the next hour, writing down everything he could interpret from the lecture, pausing now and then to give himself a mental shake when he caught himself doodling in the blank spaces of his notes…he was already dreading the homework for that night….

Finally, McGonagall asked one of the Ravenclaws sitting near the front to pass out the sheet of essay questions due next lesson, and the bell rang through the halls, signaling the end of class. Harry began packing up along with everyone else, but when he heaved his bag over his shoulder and turned to go, McGonagall’s voice rang out from the front of the room.

“Wait a moment, Potter. I’d like to have a word with you, if you please.”

She stood next to her desk watching him expectantly.

Harry glanced automatically to Ron and Hermione, but when Hermione opened her mouth, he told them shortly, “You don’t have to wait, it’s fine….”

They gave him one last uneasy look and reluctantly stepped up behind Malfoy to join the last of the students leaving the classroom. Harry watched them go, slowly setting his bag back to the floor.

McGonagall waved her wand and the door closed, dampening the sounds of students chattering away happily on the way to their next period. She gestured for him to join her as she moved around to sit behind her desk, and Harry obeyed, trying valiantly to suppress the nerves twisting his stomach. He hovered anxiously for a second until she pointed to a chair in front of her desk.

“You may sit,” she told him dryly. “It won’t bite.”

Harry sat down, fidgeting, and blurted out. “I’m sorry I haven’t been handing in some of the homework, Professor.” He remembered with a pang how pleased she had been when he’d got an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ on his O.W.L. “I’ll do better.”

She surveyed him for a moment, her hands clasped in front of her on the desk.

“I do not believe it will come as a surprise to you that you are not doing very well in my class at the moment,” she said.

“No, Professor….”

“Your other teachers have recently reported to me similar less-than-stellar marks in their subjects,” she continued, consulting a stack of papers next to her.

She looked up at him again over her square spectacles.

Harry nodded. “I know,” he said quietly. He rubbed absently at his hands. He didn’t know what to say.

“They have also reported other things, things I must confess I have noticed myself.”

Harry eyed her warily, waiting.

“In class, you are disengaged, to the point of apathy. The work you do manage to hand in is often jumbled and confused – it does not resemble anything like what I know you to be capable of accomplishing. You appear exhausted – that is, when you are not too highly strung to sit still – and from what I have seen, this is no different outside of class….”

She gazed at him seriously.

“You have clearly lost weight, Potter.”

Harry’s stomach dropped like a stone, and he stared at the ground, unable to look her in the eye. Time seemed almost suspended; it did not feel quite real, to be sitting across from strict Professor Minerva McGonagall while she said these things so plainly. He swallowed, his throat dry. He didn’t have an excuse. _What on earth was he supposed to say?_

“It’s fine,” he said finally, but it came out a quiet rasp. He cleared his throat. “I’m fine,” he insisted, and forced himself to meet her eyes. “I’ve just been tired. I’ll try harder.” He nodded, as if that would get her to agree, and scratched at his wrist. “I will.”

She continued to contemplate him, her expression grave, and Harry’s heart hammered in his chest.

“I hope you realise, Potter,” she said quietly, “that as your Head of House, I am always available should you need to talk to someone….”

Harry nodded mechanically, his eyes drifting to the floor again.

“Or perhaps someone else, with whom you would be more comfortable…?”

He shook his head mutely.

Silence stretched between them. She was still staring at him.

“Harry….” she said, and the sharp voice she so skillfully used to reprimand her students had sunk into a much softer edge.

To his utter horror, Harry felt his throat tighten and burn.

He sat up straighter instantly, biting down hard on his lip as he raised his eyes to hers.

“I’m fine, Professor,” he said firmly, and steadily met her gaze, as if daring her to contradict him. He forced himself to stop scratching.

McGonagall looked at him for another long moment, her lips pressing together in that thin line. Her eyes raked him up and down, taking in his entire appearance. At last she said, “Very well. If you’re certain…you may go.”

Harry was so grateful he had practically leapt from the chair before she’d finished speaking.

“However, Potter,” she called after him as he gathered up his bag and headed for the door; her usual brusqueness had returned. Harry turned reluctantly back to face her. “It would do you well to remember that my door is open, to any member of Gryffindor House – and rest assured that if I see no improvement, you will find yourself in my office again regardless, is that understood?”

Harry’s hand tightened around the strap of his bag. “Yes, Professor.”

She nodded, satisfied, and averted her eyes back to her desk, pulling out a pile of essays to begin marking.

Harry turned quickly and made straight for the door.

 

* * *

 

Once safely out in the empty hallway, Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He leaned back gladly against the wall and attempted to quell the quaking in his arms, an unpleasant effect of the odd push-and-pull you got from a sudden burst of nerves.

McGonagall’s promise to summon him to her office again echoed in his ears like a death knell.

Harry closed his eyes, his head falling back against the wall.

_Bollocks._

_Bollocksbollocksbollocksbollocks **bollocks.**_

A faint murmuring suddenly brought him out of his stupor of panicky self-implosion and he immediately opened his eyes, glancing about – Ron and Hermione were standing close together farther up the corridor, talking quietly, far enough away that they hadn’t heard him coming out of the classroom. They had waited for him after all. Groaning inwardly, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the Invisibility Cloak, throwing it quickly over his head.

The last thing he wanted to do was face their questions about why McGonagall had wanted to meet with him privately; they seemed far too prone nowadays to spout off their concerns about him to any listening ear, and this would only serve to encourage them.

Harry crept over to the wall opposite and started up the corridor. As he stepped silently closer to his friends, he heard Hermione laugh lightly, saying, “Ron, you’re hungry, just _go_ – I’ll wait for him, we’ll catch you up – ”

He saw Ron separate, waving to her as he set off up the hallway, and Hermione took a book out of her schoolbag, flipping it open to a page she’d marked. Harry hesitated as he drew even with her…he felt a faint prick of guilt, leaving her there to wait for him until after he was long gone. But surely she would catch on when McGonagall emerged alone, and the idea of her potential continued harassment of him was too much to take at the moment. He sneaked noiselessly by as she sat down against the wall and folded her legs up underneath her, settling down with her book.

Harry had almost caught up to Ron when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he spun around on his heel to scan the corridor.

There was someone else here, besides himself, and Ron, and Hermione….

He stood there, frozen, still invisible, straining his ears. His eyes flicked over the statues set into the walls, the suits of armour….

A tiny crumbling sound echoed quietly down the corridor, and Hermione looked up curiously from her book, glancing around; but Harry looked higher, at the ceiling above Hermione’s head, and felt his heart leap into his throat.

The stone was rapidly cracking apart, fissures splitting and spreading like a spider’s web, loosening huge chunks of rock, fit to crush, and Hermione hadn’t realised yet, she hadn’t moved –

“HERMIONE, RUN!” Harry bellowed, ripping off the Cloak without thought and casting it aside, already sprinting towards her in blind panic. He heard Ron’s shout of surprise behind him, saw Hermione look up and see the stones about to crash down upon her – she was scrambling to her feet, her book tumbling from her lap and skidding across the floor – Harry saw, as if in slow-motion, a great slab of rock start to break free from the ceiling, start to fall, directly over Hermione’s head – with a great burst of terror, he lunged over the last few feet of space between them, seized her by the waist and wrenched her out of the way –

The stone fell, missing Hermione’s head by an inch, but then there was a sickening crack and she was shrieking into Harry’s ear, a piercing cry of pain as the stone exploded into pieces on the floor…he dimly registered that her leg was sticking out at the wrong angle as he dragged her back, and blood was seeping out to soak her clothes – she gave a half-groan, half-scream, the sound strangling in her throat, and clutched desperately at Harry’s arm around her, her grip as tight as a vice, but he had to move her – the cracks in the ceiling were growing, spreading, and more stones were coming down, crashing down, the sound was deafening –

Harry did not know when Ron joined them, but one second he wasn’t there and the next he was, helping Harry to pull Hermione away from danger, to the end of the corridor where they all slumped against the wall, sweating and shaking. Doors slammed open all along the hall, curious faces appearing and exclaiming in shock at what was happening, and there was someone else, Harry saw, through the dust and debris and falling rock, on the other side, someone running, and he knew immediately who it was –

He looked quickly at his friends – at Hermione’s screwed-up, tear-stained face – at Ron, wide-eyed and pale, who had curled his long arms protectively around Hermione, cradling her against him – but they were out of the way, they were safe, and Harry released his hold on Hermione, clambering to his feet as he whipped his wand out of his robes.

 _“What are you doing?”_ Ron roared as he bolted away from them, back towards the collapsing passage.

Blood pounded in Harry’s ears as he raced past the first few fallen stones, vaulting easily over the largest of them, his wandless arm raised over his head to shield his face.

“POTTER, NO!” McGonagall screamed as he passed her door, and there were other voices shouting after him, calling him back, but he did not stop.

He ran flat-out, dodging great chunks of stone as they plunged toward him – a confused chorus of the blast and crunch of debris and the screech of panicked, echoing voices pressed on his ears – he could still barely see Malfoy up ahead on the other side of destruction, but the dust was thickening, and Harry sidestepped a pile of rubble only to stumble over another – he hit the floor hard on all fours. Something struck a glancing blow to his side, nearly knocking him to the ground, forcing air out of his lungs, but he shot back to his feet, the searing pain in his ribs barely even a thought, and sprinted relentlessly onward.

He ducked under several more plummeting rocks, and then he was on the other side - Malfoy’s robes were just whipping around the corner, and Harry followed, his fingers practically cramped around his wand for how tightly he was gripping it, a wild fury fueling every cell in his body as he ran, rounding the corner –

The next hallway came into view, but it was empty, Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, and Harry skidded to a stop, his gaze flashing in every direction, taking in everything, searching...he clutched at his side, his breath coming in agonizing gasps, dust sticking to his throat – he wracked his brains viciously, thinking of any possible way Malfoy could have gone, any secret passage he might have taken – there were no doors in this corridor, he could not have ducked into a room….

He turned in a circle, looking for some sign of him.

But there was nobody here.

_He had lost him._

A leaching sense of disappointment crawled down Harry’s trembling limbs….

As his urgency started to fade, he once more became aware of his body and his left side gave a nasty throb. Wincing, he took a few steps forward, eyes still scanning the corridor, unwilling to give up his pursuit so easily –

A pair of hands seized Harry’s shoulders, spinning him around, and he was suddenly face to face with a livid Professor McGonagall.

He briefly wondered how he hadn’t heard her coming, then realised his ears were ringing slightly; the sounds of falling stone had ceased.

 _“Potter, what were you thinking?”_ she demanded, an unmistakable edge of panic in her voice. Her face was pale, nearly bloodless but for two high spots of color in her cheeks, and her emerald robes were thick with dust in several places. Her grip tightened on his shoulders and her chin trembled slightly as she looked him up and down, though whether this was from fear or anger it was impossible to say. “Are you hurt?”

Harry dropped his hand away from his side immediately, shaking his head. “No. But, Professor, listen, I think – ” he started, pointing back the way Malfoy must have disappeared, but she cut him off.

“Of all the foolhardy – senseless – _reckless_ ….” She seemed unable to collect herself. “ _Never_ in all my life – ”

_Anger, then._

“ – might have been _killed_ – ”

At these words, all thoughts of overtaking Malfoy faded from Harry’s mind, and his terror for Hermione came flooding back to him.

“Professor, Hermione – she’s hurt – I think her leg’s broken….” He told her quickly, already moving to step around her.

McGonagall’s eyes widened slightly, her hands dropping from his shoulders as she turned immediately to follow him, and they both hurried back towards the collapsed corridor.

They came around the corner, and to Harry’s eyes it was like a scene lifted straight from a war film; there was rubble and debris everywhere, tendrils of dust still floating in the air; students and professors were tentatively drawing out of their classrooms, inspecting the damage with awe. There were no holes showing through to the upper floor, a testament to Hogwarts’ imposing edifice, but half the ceiling was missing great chunks of stone, several feet thick in some places.

Harry scrambled over fallen rock, McGonagall picking her way swiftly through the wreckage behind him, moving great lumps of stones out of the way with deft waves of her wand.

Ron and Hermione were still sat hunched against the wall, huddled together, and Harry fell to his knees beside them the second he reached them. Hermione’s tears had dried. Her eyes looked oddly cloudy as they found Harry’s face – she let out a tiny whimper and reached out for him, grasping a fistful of his robes as her other hand tightened around Ron’s arm.

“I…I think she’s in shock,” Ron muttered helplessly, looking from Harry back to Hermione.

Against his will, Harry’s gaze dropped to her leg again, and he looked away quickly, feeling sick.

McGonagall crouched down beside them. “Try not to move,” she instructed Hermione and waved her wand in the same complicated motion Snape had done over Harry in the dungeons during his detention.

Hermione closed her eyes, her breath coming in shallow little gasps.

“It seems to be the only injury,” McGonagall announced when she had finished. “But we must get to the hospital wing at once.” She put her hand bracingly on Hermione’s arm, and Hermione’s eyes opened again, glassy with pain. “It will be…less painful for you if you are not awake. Will you permit me – ?”

Hermione nodded weakly, head turning into Ron’s chest.

McGonagall raised her wand again, flicking it wordlessly, and Hermione slumped, her hand falling away from Harry’s robes. McGonagall stood, conjuring a stretcher out of thin air which hovered several feet off the ground of its own accord.

“You may let go, now, Mr. Weasley….”

Ron looked down, apparently only just realising how tightly he’d been holding onto Hermione, and slowly unwound his arms from around her waist.

McGonagall pointed her wand at Hermione’s limp body and carefully levitated her, awkwardly-angled leg and all, onto the stretcher. Harry helped Ron to his feet, noticing as he did so that the freckled hand in his was trembling quite badly, and he patted Ron staunchly on the shoulder.

“She’ll be okay,” he said quietly, and Ron nodded, swallowing, his blue eyes trained on Hermione’s still form.

Harry spotted his Invisibility Cloak several feet away, thankfully lying exactly where he had left it; he’d nearly forgotten about it. Scooping it up quickly, he shoved it into his pocket and hurried off after the others.

They moved swiftly through the halls to the infirmary. Older students on their free periods stopped and stared as they passed, and McGonagall barked orders at a Slytherin boy to find a professor to fetch Dumbledore and inform him of the collapse. Harry watched him scurry off, half-wishing he could have gone instead, could go back to that corridor, find some shred of evidence…but he looked down at Hermione’s pale face and the thought drained instantly from his mind.

Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of her office as soon as they walked through the doors, as though she had known all along they would be coming.

“Set her here.” She pointed to one of the beds and withdrew her wand from her apron as McGonagall levitated Hermione gently onto the sheets. Harry and Ron stood back, watching anxiously as Madam Pomfrey examined her leg, nimbly moving aside the blood-stained clothes and weaving her wand over the wound. They both winced at the sounds of bone and tissue knitting themselves back together.

Her job done, McGonagall swept back over to them, drawing the boys aside, her expression severe.

“Do either of you know what happened? What caused this?”

“Yes,” Harry said at once, and she gave him a sharp look.

“And is that why you so foolishly chose to _run head-first through an active cave-in?”_ she demanded, her tone biting. She and Ron stared at him.

Harry flushed resentfully. “I was going after who did it – he was going to get away – ”

“You saw who did this?”

Harry hesitated. “Sort of, I – I couldn’t see his face, but I saw him, I saw his robes – he made it around the corner before I could catch him….” He felt, again, an infuriating sense of letdown.

“You did not see clearly who it was?”

“I _know_ who it was, it was Malfoy, he’s been following Hermione around for weeks, like he’s been waiting to get her alone,” he insisted angrily. “I’ve seen him at it, and so’s Ron….”

To his relief and unending gratitude, Ron nodded emphatically beside him. “It’s true, Professor, he’s been acting fishy all term – ”

“But you did not see him this time?”

“….no,” Harry admitted through tight lips.

“Then we cannot be sure – ”

“He’s not even going to get in any trouble?” Ron exploded. “He could have killed Hermione!”

“Professor – !” Harry started, outraged, but she held up a hand, forestalling them.

“Mr. Malfoy will be taken into consideration, but an inexact identification is not proof, and at Hogwarts we do not convict students for the crime of ‘acting fishy,’” she told them sternly.

Harry looked away, fuming, feeling mutinous; his jaw worked, grinding his teeth together, holding back the words he was longing to say. Madam Pomfrey pulled screens around Hermione’s bed and stepped away briefly, returning with a neatly folded pair of pyjamas and disappearing again around the partition.

“I assure you, Potter,” McGonagall said quietly, and he looked back to her; her expression was a little more understanding. Her lips seemed less thin, anyway. “We will look into it.”

Harry knew he could not convince her any further. He bit his lip, nodding curtly.

“Now. Once Madam Pomfrey is finished with Miss Granger, I would like her to take a look at you as well – ”

“No,” Harry said at once, shaking his head rapidly. “I’m not hurt, I don’t need an exam….”

She eyed him doubtfully, and he looked down at himself, noticing for the first time that the knuckles of the fingers still wrapped around his wand and the palm of his other hand had been scraped of a few layers of skin and were tinged with blood. He stowed his wand quickly, wiping his hands on his dusty robes.

“Just grazes,” he explained. “I fell - ”

“You sure?” Ron asked, frowning at him.

Harry’s side gave another duplicitous throb. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine, I promise.”

He was saved from their visual inspections by Madam Pomfrey drawing back the screens around Hermione’s bed. She was awake, leaning back against her pillows, looking a bit groggy but much better.

“Hermione!” Ron dashed to her side, Harry on his heels. “How do you feel?”

She smiled up at them tiredly, and lightly patted Ron’s hand. “I’m alright, it doesn’t even hurt….”

The glassy look had gone from her eyes, and something in Harry finally relaxed.

She bent her leg slightly at the knee, showing them, as they sat down in chairs on either side of her. “See? Just a little stiff.”

Ron blew out a breath, his hands fidgeting in his lap as if he wasn’t quite sure where to put them.

“The break is fully mended,” Madam Pomfrey explained, “but I’d like you to stay overnight and get some rest.” She eyed Harry and Ron meaningfully as though hoping to derail any plans they’d had to throw a wild party in the hospital wing that evening.

“I am very glad you are feeling better, Miss Granger,” McGonagall told her sincerely, and she bade goodbye to the three of them before exchanging a quick word with Madam Pomfrey and hurrying from the room to attend to the destruction outside her classroom.

Madam Pomfrey set down two bottles of potion on Hermione’s bedside table and left instructions for her to take them every two hours for the stiffness, and then she was gone as well, withdrawing to her office, leaving the three of them alone.

“Blimey, Hermione, don’t scare us like that,” Ron said, chuckling breathlessly.

Hermione grinned at him. “I’ll try not to in future,” she said wryly, looking at him with distinct fondness. She turned to Harry. “Thank you,” she whispered, her expression turning serious.

He nodded, trying to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

“You were under your Cloak, weren’t you?” she asked knowingly.

Harry nodded again. “I’m sorry,” he told her, choking on the words. “I just – ”

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said earnestly.

But he shook his head, his eyes dropping to her blanket-clad lap. He could not look at either of them. “I shouldn’t have left you there….”

“You didn’t know what was going to happen,” Ron said, “you saved her life, this isn’t your fault, it’s Malfoy’s – ”

“Malfoy?” Hermione questioned.

“Yeah, Harry saw him – he was right, the git’s been following you, and now we know he’s trying to add ‘killing Muggle-borns’ to his mini-Death Eater résumé,” said Ron darkly.

“I don’t know, do we really think he’s capable of murder?” she asked, twisting her bedsheets fretfully.

Ron erupted. “He just tried to drop a ceiling on you!”

“There is that….” she replied quietly, with the air of someone accepting a hard truth only as the last resort.

There was silence between them for a moment.

“Is that why you tried to get yourself squashed under rubble? You were going after Malfoy?” Hermione asked Harry. “You really shouldn’t have done that, you could have died….” She sounded tremulous.

Harry glanced up at her. She wasn’t crying, but she looked almost…hurt, that he had dared to do such a thing. He let his gaze fall back to her blanket, shrugging uncomfortably. “I didn’t.”

He stared at her newly-mended leg, hidden underneath the blankets…bitter anger was pulsing to the surface of his thoughts again, anger at himself, at his failure… _if he had caught Malfoy at something in the first place, when he had first started using the Map to watch him, this would not have happened…he had been lax, and a Dark Mark had appeared on the Quidditch field while he had remained completely oblivious, and he hadn't stopped Malfoy stalking Hermione through the halls like a tiger…if only he hadn’t tried to sneak around his friends today like a coward, and left Hermione in the hall alone, unprotected, vulnerable to Malfoy’s attack…._

_Malfoy, who was only doing all this because he had to prove himself, to his family, to the Death Eaters, to Voldemort, now that his father had failed, now that he was in prison…._

And whose fault was it that Lucius Malfoy was in prison?

Harry’s skin was crawling – he stared without really seeing, the blankets covering Hermione nothing more than a white blur.

_She could have died._

He felt itchy all over, it was creeping up his arms, under his skin….

He couldn’t stay here.

He lurched to his feet, sliding his chair back.

“Harry?”

“Where are you going?” Ron demanded.

“Gonna go wash up,” Harry mumbled, flexing his blood-spattered hands in explanation, avoiding their eyes. “I’ll come back later…I’m happy you’re alright, Hermione….”

And he left before they could call him back.

 

* * *

 

Harry dashed up to his dormitory, slamming the door closed behind him. The other boys were in class. Ron, of course, was in the hospital wing….

He went straight to his trunk and threw it open, snatching up the Marauder’s Map, which he had left laying on top. One of the few times he had forgotten to pack it in his bag, and that just fit, didn’t it?

He hastily unfolded it, rapped it with his wand, and searched relentlessly as the lines of the school painted themselves onto the page.

_Where the hell are you, you bastard…._

With a cry of fury, he tossed the Map to the floor and aimed a vicious kick at his trunk. Pain exploded in his toes, and he roared again, dropping to the floor to lean up against his bed. He put his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

_Of course Malfoy had run straight back to the safety of his common room, the coward…._

Harry’s fingers itched to draw his wand again, to hunt down Draco Malfoy and unleash a stream of curses until he was a pile of goo on the dungeon floor. Even if Dumbledore did look into the Slytherin’s involvement with what had happened to Hermione, it wouldn’t be enough…even if by some miracle he was expelled, it would not be justice, Malfoy deserved far worse, and Harry yearned to be the one to give it to him....

His foot throbbed, and the growing pain in his ribs that he had been trying to ignore was screaming for attention. He growled, hands fisting in his hair, wishing that the pain would disappear. That it all would disappear....

He sat there for several long minutes, breathing deeply, every breath sending another shooting pain up his side.

Eventually, he accepted that he would have to move sometime, and he let his hands fall from his hair. He had forgotten he’d scraped them up. His arms were still itchy, and he took a second to scratch, though he knew it wouldn’t really help. He raked up his forearms anyway, leaving long raised abrasions, and in some strange way he almost liked how it looked.

Shaking his head at himself in disgust, Harry climbed to his feet, grunting as he twisted and his ribs protested again. He dug through his trunk for a fresh set of robes. He really did need to wash up.

In the bathroom, he shed his robe and shirt and bit his lip, bracing himself before he looked up at his reflection.

He _winced._

His left side was a mass of black and purple, curling around across several inches of his chest. He tried to turn to see his back, but it hurt too badly. He probed the area gently with his fingers, biting down a yelp of pain, and wondered if his ribs might be broken…if they were, they would have to heal on their own. He was not going to lift his shirt for anyone and let them see what was under it, not for Madam Pomfrey or, god forbid, for Ginny.

He thought briefly of trying _‘episkey’_ on himself but wasn’t sure he was brave enough – spells could be temperamental, and he didn’t know if it would work as well on ribs as it did on noses.

He did know he needed to wash the dust from his hair and the blood from his hands, however, and he turned toward the shower, wondering miserably if perhaps this time it might finally work to burn away the guilt for all his sins.

 

* * *

 

By the time Harry convinced himself to go back to the infirmary, darkness had fallen outside the windows of the castle, and Hagrid and Ginny had joined Ron at Hermione’s bedside.

“There yeh are, was wonderin’ where yeh’d got to,” said Hagrid as Harry pulled a chair up next to Ginny’s.

“Yeah – er – had to get a shower, all the dust….”

“Professor McGonagall filled me in,” Hagrid said gravely, “Tha’s how I knew Hermione here had got hurt…look at yeh, lyin’ there….”

Hermione smiled at him indulgently. “I’m perfectly alright, Hagrid, you heard Madam Pomfrey.”

“Still,” Hagrid sniffed forlornly.

“I heard you did something self-sacrificing and stupid again,” Ginny told Harry conversationally, putting her feet up on Hermione’s bed.

Harry put his hands in his pockets, looking away as she eyed him. “It wasn’t _that_ stupid….” he grunted.

“Well….” said Ron, in a tone that clearly stated that was debatable, squinting his eyes slightly as if thinking it over.

“Shut up,” Harry grumbled.

Ron shrugged, unaffected.

Hagrid shook his great shaggy head at them and climbed to his feet, his chair groaning underneath him. “I oughta be gettin’ on, Buckbe – er – _Witherwings_ – needs feedin’…now will you all try ter stay alive till the nex’ time I see yeh?” he said exasperatedly, looking around at them all. “Spent half my life in this hospital wing visitin’ you, I tell yeh….”

“No guarantees,” Ron said blithely.

Hagrid grunted. “Talkin’ of,” he said carefully, giving Harry a furtive once-over with one beady eye. “Would yeh mind comin’ down an’ seein’ me soon, Harry?”

“Oh. Erm…sure. Yeah, I’ll…I’ll try,” Harry mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. He had a funny feeling he knew exactly why Hagrid would want to talk to him alone.

“Yeh got time tomorrow?”

“Maybe…I’ll send Hedwig down if I can’t make it,” he said, not quite meeting Hagrid’s eye.

Hagrid nodded rather knowingly, and Harry was sure he already looked disappointed.

“Alrigh’,” he agreed, his voice low. “I’ll look forward ter seein’ yeh, then.” He waved at them all and trudged off towards the exit, closing the doors carefully behind him.

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

Hermione ventured softly, “You should go see him tomorrow. He’s only worried about you.”

Anger started to bubble up inside of him again, like the flick of a switch, and he did not want to let it spill out at her, while she was lying in a hospital bed for a broken leg he was responsible for in the first place, but he couldn’t stop it.

“Yeah, him and Lupin and McGonagall and everyone else, and whose fault is that?” he snapped.

“Not Hermione’s,” Ron retorted, jumping to her defense. “Is that why McGonagall kept you after class?”

“Did she? Good,” Ginny said coolly, and Harry gawked at her, indignant. She stared back at him, completely unrepentant, and for the first time that he could remember, he felt a stab of irritation towards her.

“I haven’t said a word to her,” Hermione protested, her eyes narrowing at Harry. “She’s been concerned for a while, I could tell – so let’s see, that makes me, Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna,” she started in a falsely light voice, ticking the names off on her fingers.

_Neville and Luna?_

“ – Hagrid, McGonagall, Lupin - ”

 _And Dumbledore,_ Harry’s brain supplied unhelpfully.

“It’s _obvious._ So when are _you_ going to admit something’s going on?” she finished angrily, crinkling the bedsheets in her fists.

A flush filled Harry’s face, and he practically shook with suppressed anger and something a little more frantic; he did not want to do this again, especially in front of Ginny. He felt he could not go five minutes anymore without being ganged up on. “I’m fine,” he growled. _“You’re_ the one in the hospital bed.”

“Yeah, and maybe we should book you one next to her,” Ron stormed. “I notice you never went to Madam Pomfrey like you said you would!”

“I never actually said I would go – ”

“Ginny, can you give us a minute?” Hermione asked purposefully as Harry and Ron glared at each other.

Ginny seemed as though she wanted to protest, but got up in the end, sighing. As she went, she touched Harry’s back ever-so-lightly, sending chills down his spine, and then she was gone.

Hermione’s expression was calm as she looked at Harry, but her body was tense, and he knew she was extremely upset. “Since you’re already angry at us, now seems a perfect time to discuss something,” she said evenly, and there was something almost perilous about her voice. She reached over to her bedside table and fished around in her bag, withdrawing a small package. She threw it to Harry, and it hit him in the middle of his chest with a small ‘thwack.’ He caught it automatically, and looked down at it.

It was his box of sleeping tablets.

“What are those?” she demanded.

Harry’s hand clenched around the package, something ugly and hateful twisting his gut, and he looked disbelievingly from her to Ron.

“You’re going through my things now?” he practically shouted, his body vibrating with fury and resentment. Madam Pomfrey stirred within her office at the sound, and Harry sprang to his feet, yanking the screens back around them and hastily putting up the same Silencing charm he put around his bed every night.

The last thing he needed was for the matron to come see what all the fuss was about – Ron and Hermione would probably be more than happy to help her throw him straight into a bed and tie him down, he thought furiously.

“Yeah, I am,” Ron challenged, leaning back in his chair. “I figured if you weren’t going to tell us anything, maybe your stuff would!”

“You don’t have a right – ”

“We have _every_ right!” Hermione seethed, tears brimming in her eyes. “When you refuse to say a damn thing and choose to self-destruct instead, we have _every bloody right_ to do whatever we have to do to make sure that doesn't happen! Where did you get those?”

“I just got them. What the hell does it matter anyway if I try to sleep through just _one damn night?”_ Harry argued, his voice rising with every word.

“It _matters_ because there’s no way you could have known how you’d react to them, which is why people get those kinds of things from doctors! You could stop breathing in your sleep, or have heart failure, or a million other horrible things! Do you understand that? Do you _care?”_ she demanded. Her tears began to fall, sliding down her cheeks. She moved to get off the bed, but Ron pushed her back into it.

“Well you haven’t got to worry about any of that, I stopped taking them,” Harry snapped. “They just made everything worse anyway….”

“You shouldn’t have been taking them in the first place!”

“Mate, just ask Madam Pomfrey for some Dreamless Sleep if you need it – ”

“No.”

“Why not? If it helps – ”

“I said no – ”

“Harry, come on, you could ask right now – ”

“NO!” Harry bellowed. “JUST _STOP!”_

He ran a hand frenetically through his hair, his chest heaving as he looked into their startled faces.

 _Keeping secrets from them will only make things more difficult for you…and for them,_  Dumbledore had said, and the weight of what Harry could do, what he could say to them right now was crushing. But he could not bear the thought of how they would look at him, if they knew. If they knew what dreams it was he was trying to prise from his head.

“You have to stop… _please,_ ” he implored them, and he tried to sound angry, but it came out desperate instead. “Just, don’t. I need you to stop…asking me about all this. Please.”

They all looked at each other, and for a second the world seemed to shrink down to just the three of them, locked away in their own little universe of hurt and confusion and fear.

“No,” Ron said quietly, and Hermione shook her head, wiping her tears from her face. A united front against him.

Harry looked between them, betrayal seeping like poison through his veins. He squared his jaw.

“Fine,” he said coldly, and turned to go, cancelling his Silencing spell with a flick of his wand. There was the scrape of a chair driving back and Ron’s hand was on his arm, but Harry threw it off, whirling around so that they practically nose to nose. “Stay out of my stuff,” he said dangerously. “And if you two can’t stop digging into things that are none of your business, then you can stay the hell away from me too.”

And he stalked off around the screen and down the ward, trying to feel nothing, to be blank and cold and detached, and yet feeling for all the world as though his heart was ripping in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: It's coming.


End file.
